nrMrt
.ON
.ILL!
THE LIBRARY
OF
THE UNIVERSITY
OF CALIFORNIA
LOS ANGELES
i '' ,
AND AS THEY STOOD THE CLKKGYMEX SLOWLY CAME OCT Of THE HOUSE." — [SEE PAGE 132.}
THE
AMERICAN BARON.
BY JAMES DE MILLE,
AUTHOR OF
'THE DODGE CLUB," "THE CRYPTOGRAM," "CORD AND CREESE," &c
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS.
NEW YORK:
HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS,
FRANKLIN SQUARE.
1872.
PROF. JAMES DE MILLE.
THE DODGE CLUB ; or, Italy in 1859. Illustrated. 8vo, Paper, 75 cents;
Cloth, $i 25.
CORD AND CREESE. A Novel. Illustrated. 8vo, Paper, 75 cents-,
Cloth, $i 25.
THE CRYPTOGRAM. A Novel. Illustrated. 8vo, Paper, $i 50 ; Cloth,
$2 00.
THE AMERICAN BARON. A Novel. Illustrated. 8vo, Paper.
PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK.
Senf by mail, postage prepaid, to any part of the United States, on receipt of the price.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, by
HARPER & BROTHERS,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
THE AMERICAN BARON.
"P.VEDON, MEES."
CHAPTER I.
THE AVALANCHE.
SOMEWHAT less than a hundred years ago
a party of travelers might have been seen
crossing over the Simplon Road, en route for It
aly. They had been detained at Brieg by re
ports that the road was impassable ; and, as it
was the month of March, the prospect of snow
and storms and avalanches was sufficient to
make them hesitate. At length the road had
been reopened, and they were informed that
the journey might be made on sleds.
Unwilling to wait at Brieg, and equally un
willing to make a detour so as to take the rail
road, the party decided to go on. They were
informed that they could go on wheels as far
as the line of snow, but that afterward their ac
commodations would not be so comfortable as
they might desire. The road had been cleared
for only a few feet ; the snow was deep ; the
sleds were rude; and progress would bejsJow.
These statements, however, did not shake the
resolution of the party ; and the end of it was
that they determined to go on, and cross the
mountain if it were possible.
On leaving Brieg the road began to ascend
with a very slight incline, winding around in
an intricate sort of way, sometimes crossing
deep gullies, at other times piercing the hill
side in long dark tunnels ; but amidst all these
windings ever ascending, so that every step
took them higher and higher above the little
valley where Brieg lay. The party saw also
that every step brought them steadily nearer
to the line of snow ; and at length they found
the road covered with a thin white layer. Over
this they rolled, and though the snow became
deeper with every furlong of their progress, yet
they encountered but little actual difficulty un
til they approached the first station where the
horses were to be changed. Here they came
to a deep drift. Through this a pathway had
been cleared, so that there was no difficulty
about going through ; but the sight of this
served to show them what might be expect
ed further on, and to fill them all with grave
doubts as to the practicability of a journey
which was thus interrupted so early.
On reaching the station these doubts were
confirmed. " They were informed that the road
had been cleared for sleds on the preceding
day, but that on the previous night fresh snow
had fallen, and in such quantities that the road
would have to be cleared afresh. The worst
of it was that there was every probability of
new snow-storms, which would cover the road
still deeper, and once more obliterate the track.
This led to a fresh debate about the journey ;
but they were all unwilling to turn back. Only
a few miles separated them from Domo d'Os-
sola, and they were assured that, if no fresh
snow should fall, they would be able to start
on the following morning. This last assur
ance once more confirmed their wavering reso
lution, and they concluded to wait at the sta
tion.
For the remainder of that day they waited at
the little way-side inn, amusing themselves with
looking out upon their surroundings. They
were environed by a scene of universal white.
Above them towered vast Alpine summits,
where the wild wind blew, sweeping the snow-
I. }vr,eaths into the air.
In front was a deep ra-
B
THE AMERICAN BARON.
vine, at the bottom of which there ran a tor
rent that foamed and tossed over rocks and
boulders. It was not possible to take a walk
to any distance. Their boots were made for
lighter purposes than plunging through snow
drifts ; and so they were forced to remain in
doors, and pass the time as best they could.
On the following morning they found every
thing in readiness for a start. In front of the
inn they saw five sleds of that kind which is
universally used in the northern part of Amer
ica. Each sled was of the rudest possible con
struction, and was drawn by one horse ; straw
was spread over the sled, upon which fur
robes and blankets were flung. The party
was distributed among these sleds, so that
each one should have as light a load as possi
ble, while one of the rude vehicles carried the
luggage.
Thus arranged, they all started off. And
now, since they are all fairly under way, I pro
pose to introduce them, individually and col
lectively, to my very good friend the reader.
First of all I must mention the fact that the
party consisted chiefly of ladies and their at
tendants.
Of these the most prominent was a slim, tall,
elderly lady, with large, dark, soft eyes, that
spoke of a vanished youth and beauty from her
heavily wrinkled face. She was the Dowager
Lady Dalrymple, and acted toward the rest of
the party in the multifarious capacity of chape
ron, general, courier, guide, philosopher, friend,
and Mentor.
Next came Mrs. Willoughby, a widow of
great beauty and fascination, a brunette, good-
natured, clever, and shrewd. I might here
pause, and go into no end of raptures on the
various qualities of this lady's character ; but,
on the whole, I think I'd better not, as they
will be sufficiently apparent before the end of
this story is reached.
Then there was Miss Minnie Fay, sister to
Mrs. Willoughby, and utterly unlike her in ev
ery respect. Minnie was a blonde, with blue
eyes, golden hair cut short and clustering about
her little head, little bit of a mouth, with very
red, plump lips, and very white teeth. Minnie
was very small, and very elegant in shape, in
gesture, in dress, in every attitude and every
movement. The most striking thing about
her, however, was the expression of her eyes
and her face. There was about her brow the
glory of perfect innocence. Her eyes had a
glance of unfathomable melancholy, mingled
with childlike trust in the particular person
upon whom her gaze was fastened. Minnie
was considered by all her friends as a child —
was treated as a child — humored, petted, coax
ed, indulged, and talked to as a child. Min
nie, on her part, thought, spoke, lived, moved,
and acted as a child. She fretted, she teased,
she pouted, she cried, she did every thing as a
child does ; and thus carried up to the age of
eighteen the bloom and charm of eight.
The two sisters were nieces of the Dowager
Lady Dalrymple. Another niece also accom
panied them, who was a cousin of the two sis
ters. This was Miss Ethel Orne, a young lady
who had flourished through a London season,
and had refused any number of brilliant offers.
She was a brunette, with most wonderful dark
eyes, figure of perfect grace, and an expression
of grave self-poise that awed the butterflies of
fashion, but offered an irresistible attraction to
people of sense, intellect, intelligence, esprit,
and all that sort of thing — like you and me, my
boy.
I am taking up too much time and antici
pating somewhat, I fear, by these descriptions ;
so let us drop Miss Ethel.
These ladies being thus all related formed a
family party, and had made the journey thus
far on the best of terms, without any other es
cort than that which was afforded by their
chaperon, general, courier, guide, philosopher,
friend, and Mentor — the Dowager Lady Dal
rymple.
The party was enlarged by the presence of
four maids and a foreign gentleman. This last-
mentioned personage was small in stature, with
a very handsome face and very brilliant eyes.
His frame, though slight, was sinewy and well
knit, and he looked like an Italian. He had
come on alone, and had passed the night at
the station-house.
A track about six feet wide had been cut out
through the snow, and over this they passed.
The snow was soft, and the horses sank deep,
so that progress was slow. Nor was the jour
ney without the excitement of apparent dan
ger. At times before them and behind them
there would come a low, rumbling sound, and
they would see a mass of snow and ice rushing
down some neighboring slope. Some of these
fell on the road, and more than once they had
to quit their sleds and wait for the drivers to
get them over the heaps that had been formed
across their path. Fortunately, however, none
of these came near them ; and Minnie Fay, who
at first had screamed at intervals of about five
minutes, gradually gained confidence, and at
length changed her mood so completely that she
laughed and clapped her little hands whenever
she saw the rush of snow and ice. Thus slow
ly, yet in safety, they pushed onward, and at
length reached the little village of Simplon.
Here they waited an hour to warm themselves,
lunch, and change horses. At the end of that
time they set out afresh, and once more they
were on their winding way.
They had now the gratification of finding that
they were descending the slope, and of knowing
that this descent took them every minute fur
ther from the regions of snow, and nearer to
the sunny plains of Italy. Minnie in particular
gave utterance to her delight : and now, having
lost every particle of fear, she begged to be al
lowed to drive in the foremost sled. Ethel had
been in it thus far, but she willingly changed
places with Minnie, and thus the descent was
made.
THE AMERICAN BARON.
g
The sleds and their occupants were now ar
ranged in the following order :
First, Minnie Fay alone with the driver.
Second, Mrs. Willoughby and Ethel.
Third, the Dowager and her maid.
Fourth, the three other maids.
Fifth, the luggage.
After these five sleds, containing our party,
came another with the foreign gentleman.
Each of these sleds had a driver to itself.
In this order the party went, until at length
they came to the Gorge of Gondo. This is a
narrow valley, the sides of which rise up very
abruptly, and in some places precipitously, to a
great height. At the bottom flows a furious
torrent, which boils and foams and roars as
it forces its impetuous way onward over fallen
masses of rock and trees and boulders, at one
time gathering into still pools, at other times
roaring into cataracts. Their road had been
cut out on the side of the mountain, and the
path had been cleared away here many feet
above the buried road ; and as they wound
along the slope they could look up at the stu
pendous heights above them, and down at the
abyss beneath them, whose white snow-cover
ing was marked at the bottom by the black
line of the roaring torrent. The smooth slope
of snow ran down as far as the eye could reach
at a steep angle, filling up all crevices, with
here and there a projecting rock or a dark
clump of trees to break its surface.
The road was far beneath them. The drivers
had informed them that it was forty feet deep
at the top of the pass, and that its depth here
was over thirty. Long poles which were in
serted in the snow projected above its surface,
and served to mark where the road ran.
Here, then, they drove along, feeling wearied
with the length of the way, impatient at the
slowness of their progress, and eager to reach
their journey's end. But little was said. All
had talked till all were tired out. Even Min
nie Fay, who at first had evinced great enthu
siasm on finding herself leading the way, and
had kept turning back constantly to address
remarks to her friends, had at length subsided,
and had rolled herself up more closely in her
furs, and heaped the straw higher about her
little feet.
Suddenly, before them, and above them, and
behind them, and all around them, there arose
a deep, low, dull, rushing sound, which seemed
as if all the snow on the slope was moving.
Their ears had by this time become sufficiently
well acquainted with the peculiar sound of the
mshing snow-masses to know that this was the
noise that heralded their progress, and to feel
sure that this was an avalanche of no common
size. Yes, this was an avalanche, and every
one heard it; but no one could tell where it
was moving, or whether it was near or far, or
whether it was before or behind. They only
knew that it was somewhere along the slope
which they were traversing.
A warning cry came from the foremost driver.
He looked back, and his face was as pale as
death. He waved his hands above him, and
then shouting for the others to follow, he whipped
up his horse furiously. The animal plunged
into the snow, and tossed and floundered and
made a rush onward.
But the other drivers held back, and, instead
of following, shouted to the first driver to stop,
and cried to the passengers to hold on. Not a
cry of fear escaped from any one of the ladies.
All did as they were directed, and grasped the
stakes of their sleds, looking up at the slope
with white lips, and expectation of horror in
their eyes, watching for the avalanche.
And down it came, a vast mass of snow and
ice — down it came, irresistibly, tremendously,
with a force that nothing could withstand. All
eyes watched its progress in the silence of utter
and helpless terror. It came. It struck. All
the sleds in the rear escaped, but Minnie's sled
lay in the course of the falling mass. The
driver had madly rushed into the very midst
of the danger which he sought to avoid. A
scream from Minnie and a cry of despair from
the driver burst upon the ears of the horrified
listeners, and the sled that bore them, buried
in the snow, went over the edge of the slope,
and downward to the abyss.
CHAPTER II.
THE PERILOUS DESCENT.
THE shriek of Minnie and the driver's cry
of despair were both stopped abruptly by the
rush of snow, and were smothered in the heap
under which they were buried. The whole
party stood paralyzed, gazing stupidly down
ward where the avalanche was hurrying on to
the abyss, bearing with it the ill-fated Minnie.
The descent was a slope of smooth snow, which
went down at an angle of forty-five degrees for
at least a thousand feet. At that point there
seemed to be a precipice. As their aching
eyes watched the falling mass they saw it ap
proach this place, and then as it came near the
whole avalanche seemed to divide as though it
had been severed by some projecting rock. It
divided thus, and went to ruin ; while in the
midst of the ruin they saw the sled, looking like
a helpless boat in the midst of foaming break
ers. So, like such a helpless boat, it was dashed
forward, and shot out of sight over the preci
pice.
Whither had it gone ? Into what abyss had
it fallen? What lay beneath that point over
which it had been thrown ? Was it the fierce
torrent that rolled there, or were there black
rocks and sharp crags lying at the foot of the
awful precipice ? Such were the questions
which flashed through every mind, and deep
ened the universal horror into universal de
spair.
In the midst of this general dismay Ethel
was the first to speak and to act. She started
10
THE AMERICAN BARON.
to her feet, and looking back, called in a loud
voice :
" Go down after her ! A thousand pounds
to the man who saves her ! Quick !"
At this the drivers came forward. None of
them could understand English, and so had not
comprehended her offer; but they saw by her
gestures what she wanted. They, however, did
not seem inclined to act. They pointed down,
and pointed up, and shook their heads, and jab
bered some strange, unintelligible patois.
"Cowards!" cried Ethel, "to leave a young
girl to die. I will go down myself."
And then, just as she was, she stepped from
the sled, and paused for a moment, looking
down the slope as though selecting a place.
Lady Dalrymple and Mrs. Willoughby scream
ed to her to come back, and the drivers sur
rounded her with wild gesticulations. To all
this she paid no attention whatever, and would
certainly have gone down in another moment
had not a hand been laid on her arm, and a
voice close by her said, with a strong foreign
accent,
"Mees!"
She turned at once.
It was the foreign gentleman who had been
driving behind the party. He had come up
and had just reached the place. He now stood
before her with his hat in one hand and the
other hand on his heart.
" Pardon, mees," he said, with a bow. " Eet
is too periloss. I sail go down eef you 'low me
to mak ze attemp."
"Oh, monsieur," cried Ethel, "save her if
you can!"
" Do not fear. Be calm. I sail go down.
Nevare mine."
The stranger now turned to the drivers, and
spoke to them in their own language. They all
obeyed at once. He was giving them explicit
directions in a way that showed a perfect com
mand of the situation. It now appeared that
each sled had a coil of rope, which was evident
ly supplied from an apprehension of some such
accident as this. Hastily yet dextrously the
foreign gentleman took one of these coils, and
then binding a blanket around his waist, he
passed the rope around this, so that it would
press against the blanket without cutting h.im.
Having secured this tightly, he gave some fur
ther directions to the drivers, and then prepared
to go down.
Hitherto the drivers had acted in sullen sub
mission rather than with ready acquiescence.
They were evidently afraid of another ava
lanche ; and the frequent glances which they
threw at the slope above them plainly showed
that they expected this snow to follow the ex
ample of the other. In spite of themselves an
expression of this fear escaped them, and came
to the ears of the foreign gentleman. He
turned at once on the brink of the descent, and
burst into a torrent of invective against them.
The ladies could not understand him, but they
could perceive that he was uttering threats,
and that the men quailed before him. He did
not waste any time, however. After reducing
the men to a state of sulky submission, he
turned once more and began the descent.
As he went down the rope was held by the
men, who allowed it to pass through their hands
so as to steady his descent. The task before
the adventurer was one of no common difficulty.
The snow was soft, and at every step he sank
in at least to his knees. Frequently he came
to treacherous places, where he sank down above
his waist, and was only able to scramble out
with difficulty. But the rope sustained him ;
and as his progress was downward, he succeed
ed in moving with some rapidity toward his
destination. The ladies on the height above
sat in perfect silence, watching the progress of
the man who was thus descending with his life
in his hand to seek and to save their lost com
panion, and in the intensity of their anxiety
forgot utterly about any danger to themselves,
though from time to time there arose the well-
known sound of sliding masses, not so far away
but that under other circumstances of less anx
iety it might have filled them with alarm. But
now there was no alarm for themselves.
And now the stranger was far down, and the
coil of rope was well-nigh exhausted. But this
had been prepared for, and the drivers fastened
this rope to another coil, and after a time be
gan to let out that one also.
Farther and farther down the descent went
on. They saw the stranger pursuing his way
still with unfaltering resolution ; and they sent
after him all their hearts and all their prayers.
At last he plunged down almost out of sight,
but the next moment he emerged, and then, aft
er a few leaps, they saw that he had gained the
place where lay the ruins of the shattered ava
lanche. Over this he walked, sometimes sink
ing, at other times running and leaping, until
at length he came to the precipice over which
the sled had been flung.
And now the suspense of the ladies became
terrible. This was the critical moment. Al
ready his eyes could look down upon the mys
tery that lay beneath that precipice. And
what lay revealed there? Did his eyes en
counter a spectacle of horror? Did they gaze
down into the inaccessible depths of some hid
eous abyss? Did they see those jagged rocks,
those sharp crags, those giant boulders, those
roaring billows, which, in their imaginations,
had drawn down their lost companion to de
struction ? Such conjectures were too terri
ble. Their breath failed them, and their hearts
for a time almost ceased to beat as they sat
there, overcome by such dread thoughts as
these.
Suddenly a cry of delight escaped Ethel.
She was kneeling down beside Lady Dalrym
ple and Mrs. Willoughby, with her eyes staring
from her pallid face, when she saw the stran
ger turn and look up. He took off his hat,
and waved it two or three times. Then he
beckoned to the drivers. Then he sat down
THE AMERICAN BARON.
11
and prepared to let himself over the precipice.
This incident inspired hope. It did more. It
gave a moment's confidence, and the certainty
that all was not lost. They looked at each
other, and wept tears of joy. But soon that
momentary hope vanished, and uncertainty re
turned. After all, what did the stranger's ges
ture mean ? He might have seen her — but how ?
He might reach her., but would she be safe
from harm? Could such a thing be hoped
for ? Would she not, rather, be all marred and
mutilated? Dared they hope for any thing
better ? They dared not. And now they sat
once more, as sad as before, and their short
lived gleam of hope faded away.
They saw the stranger go over the preci
pice.
Then he disappeared.
The rope was let out for a little distance,
and then stopped. Theu more went out. Then
it stopped again.
The rope now lay quite loose. There was
no tension.
What was the meaning of this ? Was he
clinging to the side of the precipice ? Impossi
ble. It looked rather as though he had reached
some place where he was free to move, and
had no further need of descent. And it seemed
as though the precipice might not be so deep
or so fearful as they had supposed.
In a short time their eyes were greeted by
the appearance of the stranger above the preci
pice. He waved his hat again. Then he made
some gestures, and detached the rope from his
person. The drivers understood him as if this
had been preconcerted. Two of them instant
ly unharnessed the horse fro.m one of the sleds,
while the others pulled up the rope which the
stranger had cast off. Then the latter disap
peared once more behind the precipice. The
ladies watched now in deep suspense; inclin
ing to hope, yet dreading the worst. They
saw the drivers fasten the rope to the sled, and
let it down the slope. It was light, and the
runners were wide. It did not sink much, but
slid down quite rapidly. Once or twice it
stuck, but by jerking it back it was detached,
and went on as before. At last it reached the
precipice at a point not more than a hundred
feet from where the stranger had last ap
peared.
And now as they sat there, reduced once
more to the uttermost extremity of suspense,
they saw a sight which sent a thrill of rapture
through their aching heaits. They saw the
stranger come slowly above the precipice, and
then stop, and stoop, and look back. Then
they saw — oh, Heavens ! who was that ? Was
not that her red hood — and that figure who
thus slowly emerged from behind the edge of
the precipice which had so long concealed her
— that figure ! Was it possible ? Not dead —
not mangled, but living, moving, and, yes —
wonder of wonders — scaling a precipice! Could
it be ! Oh joy ! Oh bliss ! Oh revulsion from
despj-.ir ! The ladies trembled and shivered,
and laughed and sobbed convulsively, and wept
in one another's arms by turns.
As far as they could see through the tears
that dimmed their eyes, Minnie could not be
much injured. She moved quite lightly over
the snow, as the stranger led her toward the
sled ; only sinking once or twice, and then ex
tricating herself even more readily than her
companion. At last she reached the sled, and
the stranger, taking off the blanket that he had
worn under the rope, threw it over her shoul
ders.
Then he signaled to the men above, and
they began to pull up the sled. The stranger
climbed up after it through the deep snow,
walking behind it for some distance. At last
he made a despairing gesture to the men, and
sank down.
The men looked bewildered, and stopped
pulling.
The stranger started up, and waved his
hands impatiently, pointing to Minnie.
The drivers began to pull once more at the
sled, and the stranger once more sank exhaust
ed in the snow.
At this Ethel started up.
"That noble soul!" she cried; "that gen
erous heart! See! he is saving Minnie, and
sitting down to die in the snow !"
She sprang toward the men, and endeavor
ed to make them do something. By, her ges
tures she tried to get two of the men to pull at
the sled, and the third man to let the fourth
man down with a rope to the stranger. The
men refused ; but at the offer of her purse,
which was well filled with gold, they consented.
Two of them then pulled at the sled, and num
ber four bound the rope about him, and went
down, while number three held the rope. He
went down without difficulty, and reached the
stranger. By this time Minnie had been drawn
to the top, and was clasped in the arms of her
friends.
But nqjv the strength and the sense which
had been so wonderfully maintained gave wav
utterly ; and no sooner did she find herself safe
than she fell down unconscious.
They drew her to a sled, and tenderly laid
her on the straw, and lovingly and gently they
tried, to restore her, and call her back to con
sciousness. But for a long time their efforts
were of no avail.
She lay there a picture of perfect loveliness,
as beautiful as a dream — like some child-angel.
Her hair, frosted with snow dust, clustered in
golden curls over her fair white brow ; her lit
tle hands were folded meekly over her breast ;
her sweet lips were parted, and disclosed the
pearly teeth ; the gentle eyes no longer looked
forth with their piteous expression of mute
appeal ; and her hearing was deaf to the
words of love and pity that were lavished upon
her.
THE AMERICAN BARON.
CHAPTER III.
THE CHILD-ANGEL AND HER WOES.
MRS . WILLOUGHBY was in her room at the
hotel in Milan, when the door opened, and Min
nie came in. She looked around the room,
drew a long breath, then locked the door, and
flinging herself upon a sofa, she reclined there
in silence for some time, looking hard at the
ceiling. Mrs. Willoughby looked a little sur
prised at first ; but after waiting a few moments
for Minnie to say something, resumed her read
ing, which had been interrupted.
'Kitty," said Minnie at last.
' What ?" said her sister, looking up.
'I think you're horrid."
' Why, what's the matter ?"
' Why, because when you see and know that
I'm dying to speak to you, you go on reading
that wretched book."
"Why, Minnie darling,"said Mrs. Willough
by, " how in the world was I to know that you
wanted to speak to me ?"
" You might have known," said Minnie, with
a pout — "you saw me look all round, and lock
the door ; and you saw how worried I looked,
and I think it a shame, and I've a great mind
not to tell you any thing about it."
"About it — what itf and Mrs. Willough
by put down her book, and regarded her sister
with some curiosity.
" I've a great mind not to tell you, but I
can't help it. Besides, I'm dying to ask your
advice. I don't know what to do ; and I wish
I was dead — there ! "
"My poor Minnie! what is the matter?
You're so incoherent. "
"Well, Kitty, it's all my accident."
"Your accident!"
" Yes ; on the Alps, yon know."
" What ! You haven't received any serious
injury, have you?" asked Mrs. Willoughby,
with some alarm.
"Oh! I don't mean that; but I'll tell you
what I mean;" and here Minnie got up from
her reclining position, and allowed her little feet
to touch the carpet, while she fastened her great,
fond, pleading, piteous eyes upon her sister.
"It's the Count, you know," said she.
"The Count!" repeated Mrs. Willoughby,
somewhat dryly. " Well ?"
" Well — don't you know what I mean ? Oh,
how stupid you are !"
"I really can not imagine."
"Well — he — he — he pro — proposed, you
know."
"Proposed!" cried the other, in a voice of
dismay.
"Now, Kitty, if yon speak in that horrid
way I won't say another word. I'm worried
too much already, and I don't want you to
scold me. And I won't have it."
" Minnie darling, I wish you would tell me
something. I'm not scolding. I merely wish
to know what you mean. Do you really mean
that the Count has proposed to you?"
"Of course that's what I mean."
"What puzzles me is, how he could have
got the chance. It's more than a week since
he saved you, and we all felt deeply grateful
to him. But saving a girl's life doesn't give a
man any claim over her ; and we don't alto
gether like him ; and so we all have tried, in a
quiet way, without hurting his feelings, you
know, to prevent him from having any ac
quaintance with you."
" Oh, I know, I know," said Minnie, brisk
ly. " He told me all that. He understands
that ; but he doesn't care, he says, if / only
consent. He will forgive you, he says."
Minnie's volubility was suddenly checked by
catching her sister's eye fixed on her in new
amazement.
"Now you're beginning to be horrid," she
cried. "Don't, don't — "
" Will you have the kindness to tell me,"
said Mrs. Willoughby, very quietly, "how in
the world the Count contrived to tell you all
this?"
"Why — why — several times."
" Several times!"
"Yes."
"Tell me where?"
" Why, once at the amphitheatre. You were
walking ahead, and I sat down to rest, and he
came and joined me. He left before you came
back."
"He must have been following us, then."
"Yes. And another time in the picture-
gallery; and yesterday in a shop; and this
morning at the Cathedral."
"The Cathedral!"
" Yes, Kitty. You know we all went, and
Lady Dalrymple would not go up. So Ethel
and I went up. And when we got up to the
top I walked about, and Ethel sat down to ad
mire the view. And, you know, I found my
self off at a little distance, when suddenly I saw
Count Girasole. And then, you know, he — he
— proposed."
Mrs. Willoughby sat silent for some time.
" And what did you say to him ?" she asked
at length.
"Why, what else could I say?"
"What else than what?"
"I don't see why you should act so like a
grand inquisitor, Kitty. You really make me
feel quite nervous," said Minnie, who put her
little rosy-tipped fingers to one of her eyes, and
attempted a sob, which turned out a failure.
" Oh, I only asked you what you told him,
you know."
"Well," said Minnie, gravely, "I told him,
you know, that I was awfully grateful to him,
and that I'd give any thing if I could to ex
press my gratitude. And then, you know — oh,
he speaks such darling broken English — he
called me his 'mees,' and tried to make a pret
ty speech, which was so mixed with Italian that
I didn't understand one single word. By-the-
way, Kitty, isn't it odd how every body here
speaks Italian, even the children ?"
THE AMERICAN BARON.
13
" Yes, very odd ; but, Minnie dear, I want
to know what you told him."
''Why, I told him that I didn't know, you
know."
" And then ?"
"And then he took my hand. Now, Kitty,
you're unkind. I really can not tell you all this. "
;' Yes, but I only ask so as to advise you. I
want to know how the case stands."
"Well, you know, he was so urgent — "
"Yes?"
" And so handsome — "
" Well ?"
" And then, you know, he saved my life —
didn't he, now? You must acknowledge that
much, mustn't you?"
"Oh yes."
" Well—"
"Well?"
Minnie sighed.
" So what could I say ?"
Minnie paused.
Mrs. Willoughby looked troubled.
" Kitty, I wish you wouldn't look at me with
that dreadful expression. You really make me
feel quite frightened."
" Minnie," said the other, in a serious voice,
" do you really love this man ?"
" Love this man ! why no, not particularly ;
but I like him ; that is, I think I do, or rather
I thought I did ; but really I'm so worried
about all my troubles that I wish he had never
come down after me. I don't see why he did,
either. I didn't ask him to. I remember,
now, I really felt quite embarrassed when I saw
him. I knew there would be trouble about it.
And I wish you would take me back home. I
hate Italy. Do, Kitty darling. But then — "
Minnie paused again.
"Well, Minnie dear, we certainly must con
trive some plan to shake him off without hurt
ing his feelings. It can't be thought of. There
are a hundred objections. If the worst comes
to the worst we can go back, as you say, to En
gland."
"I know; but then," said Minnie, "that's
the very thing that I can't do — "
"Can't do what?"
"Go back to England."
" Back to England ! Why not ? I don't
know what you mean."
" Well, you see, Kitty, that's the very thing I
came to see you about. This dreadful man —
the Count, you know — has some wonderful way
of finding out where I go ; and he keeps all the
time appearing and disappearing in the very
strangest manner ; and when I saw him on the
roof of the Cathedral it really made me feel
quite giddy. He is so determined to win me
that I'm afraid to look round. He takes the
commonest civility as encouragement. And
then, you know — there it is — I really can't go
back to England."
" What do you mean by that ?"
"Why there's — a — a dreadful person there,"
said Minnie, with an awful look in her eyes.
"A what?"
"A — person," said Minnie.
"A man?"
Minnie nodded. "Oh yes — of course. Real
ly when one thinks of one's troubles it's enough
to drive one distracted. This person is a man.
I don't know why it is that I should be so wor
ried and so distracted by men. I do not like
them, and I wish there were no such persons."
"Another man!" said Mrs. Willoughby, in
some surprise. "Well, Minnie, you certain-
iy-"
"Now don't, don't — not a word; I know all
you're going to say, and I won't stand it;" and
Minnie ran over to her sister and held her hand
over her mouth.
"I won't say a word," said Mrs. Willoughby,
as soon as she had removed Minnie's hand ; " so
begin."
Minnie resumed her place on the sofa, and
gave a long sigh.
"Well, yo'u know, Kitty darling, it happened
at Brighton last September. You were in Scot
land then. I was with old Lady Shrewsbury,
who is as blind as a bat — and where 's the use of
having a person to look after you when they're
blind ! You see, my horse ran away, and I think
he must have gone ever so many miles, over
railroad bridges and hedges and stone walls.
I'm certain he jumped over a small cottage.
Well, you know, when all seemed lost, sudden
ly there was a strong hand laid on the reins,
and my horse was stopped. I tumbled into
some strange gentleman's arms, and was car
ried into a house, where I was resuscitated. I
returned home in the gentleman's carriage.
"Now the worst of it is," said Minnie, with a
piteous look, " that the person who stopped the
horse called to inquire after me the next day.
Lady Shrewsbury, like an old goose, was awful
ly civil to him ; and so there I was ! His name
is Captain Kirby, and I wish there were no cap
tains in the world. The life he led me ! He
used to call, and I had to go out riding with
him, and old Lady Shrewsbury utterly neglect
ed me ; and so, you know, Kitty darling, he at
last, you know, of course, proposed. That's
what they all do, you know, when they save
your life. Always ! It's awful !"
Minnie heaved a sigh, and sat apparently
meditating on the enormous baseness of the
man who saved a lady's life and then pro
posed; and it was not until Mrs. Willoughby
had spoken twice that she was recalled to her
self.
"What did you tell him?" was her sister's
question.
"Why, what could I tell him ?"
"What!" cried Mrs. Willoughby; "you
don't — "
" Now, Kitty, I think it's very unkind in you,
when I want all your sympathy, to be so horrid."
"Well, tell it your own' way, Minnie dearest."
Minnie sat for a time regarding vacancy with
a soft, sad, and piteous expression in her large
blue eyes ; with her head also a little on one
THE AMERICAN BARON.
"ANOTHEB MAN!"
side, and her delicate hands gently clasped in
front of her.
"You see, Kitty darling, he took me out
riding, and — he took me to the place where I
had met him, and then he proposed. Well, you
know, I didn't know what to say. He was so
earnest, and so despairing. And then, you know,
Kitty dearest, he had saved my life, and so — "
"And so?"
" Well, I told him I didn't know, and was
shockingly confused, and then we got up quite
a scene. He swore that he would go to Mex
ico, though why I can't imagine ; and I really
wish he had ; but I was frightened at the time,
and I cried ; and then he got worse, and I told
him not to ; whereupon he went into raptures,
and began to call me no end of names — spooney
names, you know ; and I — oh, I did so want him
to stop ! — I think I must have promised him all
that he wanted ; and when I got home I was
frightened out of my poor little wits, and cried
all night."
"Poor dear child!" exclaimed Mrs. Wil-
loughby, with tender sympathy. "What a
wretch!"
" No, he wasn't a wretch at all ; he was aw
fully handsome, only, you know, he — was — so
— '-awfully persevering, and kept so at my heels ;
but I hurried home from Brighton, and thought
I had got rid of him."
" And hadn't you ?"
"Oh dear, no," said Minnie, mournfully.
" On the day after my arrival there came a
letter ; and, you know, I had to answer it ; and
then another ; and so it went on — "
"Oh, Minnie! why didn't you tell me be
fore ?"
"How could I when you were off in that
horrid Scotland ? I always hated Scotland."
" You might have told papa."
" I couldn't. I think papa's cruel too. He
doesn't care for me at all. Why didn't he find
out our correspondence and intercept it, the
way papas always do in novels ? If I were his
papa I'd not let him be so worried."
" And did he never call on you ?"
"Yes; he got leave of absence once, and I
had a dreadful time with him. He was in a
desperate state of mind. He was ordered off
to Gibraltar. But I managed to comfort him ;
and, oh dear, Kitty dear, did you ever try to
comfort a man, and the man a total stranger?"
At this innocent question Mrs. Willoughby's
gravity gave way a little.
Minnie frowned, and then sighed.
"Well, you needn't be so unkind," said she ;
and then her little hand tried to wipe away n.
tear, but failed.
"Did he go to Gibraltar?" asked Mrs. Wil-
loughby at length.
"Yes, he did," said Minnie, with a little as
perity.
" Did he write ?"
"Of course he wrote,"-in the same tone.
" Well, how did it end ?"
" End ! It didn't end at all. And it never
will end. It '11 go on getting worse and worse
every day. You see he wrote, and said a lot of
rubbish about his getting leave of absence and
coming to see me. And then I determined to
THE AMERICAN BARON.
IS
run away ; and you know I begged you to take
me to Italy, and this is the first time I've told
you the real reason."
" So that was the real reason ?"
"Yes."
"Well, Minnie, my poor child," said Mrs.
Willoughby, after a pause, "you're safe from
your officer, at any rate ; and as to Count Gira-
sole, we must save you from him. Don't give
way. "
" But you can't save me. They'll come after
me, I know. Captain Kirby, the moment he
finds out that I am here, will come flying after
me ; and then, oh dear ! the other one will come,
and the American, too, of course."
" The what ? who ?" cried Mrs. Willoughby,
starting up with new excitement. ''Who's
that? What did you say, Minnie? The
American ? What American ?"
Minnie threw a look of reproach at her sister,
and her eyes fell.
" You can't possibly mean that there are any
more — "
"There — is — one — more," said Minnie, in a
low, faint voice, stealing a glance at her sister,
and looking a little frightened.
"One more!" repeated her sister, breathless.
"Well, I didn't come here to be scolded,"
said Minnie, rising, " and I'll go. But I hoped
that you'd help me ; and I think you're very
unkind ; and I wouldn't treat you so."
"No, no, Minnie," said Mrs. Willoughby, ris
ing, and putting her arm round her sister, and
drawing her back. " I had no idea of scolding.
I never scolded any one in my life, and wouldn't
speak a cross word to you for the world. Sit
down now, Minnie darling, and tell me all.
What about the American ? I won't express any
more astonishment, no matter what I may feel."
"But you mustn't feel any astonishment,"
insisted Minnie.
" Well, darling, I won't," said her sister.
Minnie gave a sigh.
" It was last year, you know, in the spring.
Papa and I were going out to Montreal, to
bring you home. You remember ?"
Mrs. Willoughby nodded, while a sad ex
pression came over her face.
"And, you remember, the steamer was
wrecked."
"Yes."
" But I never told you how my life was saved."
"Why, yes, you did. Didn't papa tell all
about the heroic sailor who swam ashore with
you ? how he was frantic about you, having
been swept away by a wave from you ? and how
he fainted away with joy when you were brought
to him ? How can you suppose I would forget
that ? And then how papa tried to find the
noble sailor to reward him."
" Oh yes," said Minnie, in a despondent
tone. "That's all very true ; but he wasn't a
noble sailor at all."
"What!"
"You see, he wasn't going to have a scene
with papa, and so he kept out of his way. Oh
', dear, how I wish he'd been as considerate with
me ! But that's the way always ; yes, always."
"Well, who was he?"
" Why, he was an American gentleman, re
turning home from a tour in Europe. He
saved me, as you have heard. I really don't
remember much about it, only there was a ter-
j rible rush of water, and a strong arm seized
I me, and I thought it was papa all the time.
And I found myself earned, I don't know how,
; through the waves, and then I fainted ; and I
! really don't know any thing about it except
papa's story."
Mrs. Willoughby looked at Minnie in silence,
but said nothing.
"And then, you know, he traveled with us,
and papa thought he was one of the passengers,
and was civil ; and so he used to talk to me,
and at last, at Montreal, he used to call on me."
"Where?"
"At your house, dearest."
" Why, how was that ?"
"You could not leave your room, darling, so
I used to go down."
" Oh, Minnie!"
"And he proposed to me there."
" Where ? in my parlor ?"
"Yes; in your parlor, dearest."
" I suppose it's not necessary for me to ask
what you said."
"I suppose not," said Minnie, in a sweet
voice. " He was so grand and so strong, and
he never made any allusions to the wreck ; and
it was — the — the — very first time that any body
ever — proposed ; and so, you know, I didn't
know how to take it, and I didn't want to hurt
his feelings, and I couldn't deny that he had
saved my life ; and I don't know when I ever
was so confused. It's awful, Kitty darling.
"And then, you know, darling," continued
Minnie, "he went away, and used to write reg
ularly every month. He came to see me once,
and I was frightened to death almost. He is
going to marry me next year. He used an aw
ful expression, dearest. He told me he was a
struggling man. Isn't that horrid ? What is it,
Kitty ? Isn't it something very, very dreadful ?"
" He writes still, I suppose ?"
" Oh dear, yes."
Mrs. Willoughby was silent for some time.
"Oh, Minnie," said she at last, "what a
trouble all this is ! How I wish you had been
with me all this time !"
" Well, what made you go and get married ?"
said Minnie.
"Hush,"said Mrs. Willoughby, sadly, "never
mind. I've made up my mind to one thing,
and that is, I will never leave you alone with a
gentleman, unless — "
"Well, I'm sure I don't want the horrid
creatures," said Minnie. "And you needn't
be so unkind. I'm sure I don't see why people
will come always and save my life wherever I
go. I don't want them to. I don't want to
have my life saved any more. I think it's
dreadful to have men chasing me all over the
16
THE AMERICAN BARON.
"HE BENT HIS HEAD DOWN, AND RAN HIS HAND THROUGH HIS BUSHY HAIB."
world. I'm afraid to stop in Italy, and I'm
afraid to go back to England. Then I'm al
ways afraid of that dreadful American. I sup
pose it's no use for me to go to the Holy Land,
or Egypt, or Australia; for then my life would
be saved by an Arab, or a New Zealander.
And oh, Kitty, wouldn't it be dreadful to have
some Arab proposing to me, or a Hindu ! Oh,
what am I to do ?"
" Trust to me, darling. I'll get rid of Gira-
sole. We will go to Naples. He has to stop
at Rome; I know that. We will thus pass
quietly away from him, without giving him any
pain, and he'll soon forget all about it. As for
the others, I'll stop this correspondence first,
and then deal with them as they come."
"You'll never do it, never!" cried Minnie;
': I know you won't. You don't know them."
finally found himself
in Naples. It was al
ways a favorite place
of his, and he had es
tablished himself in
comfortable quarters
on the Strada Nuovn,
from the windows of
which there was a
magnificent view of
the whole bay, with
Vesuvius, Capri,
Baiaj, and all the re
gions round about.
Here an old friend
had unexpectedly
turned up in the per
son of Scone Dacres.
Their friendship had
been formed some
five or six years be
fore in South Ameri
ca, where they had
made a hazardous
journey in company
across the continent,
and had thus ac
quired a familiarity
with one another
which years of or
dinary association
would have failed to
give. Scone Dacres
was several years old
er than Lord Haw-
bury.
One evening Lord
Hawbury had just
finished his dinner,
and was dawdling
about in a listless
CHAPTER IV.
IN THE CRATER OF VESUVIUS.
LORD HARRY HAWBURY had been wandering
for three months on the Continent, and had
way, when Dacres entered, quite unceremoni
ously, and flung himself into a chair by one of
the windows.
"Any .Bass, Hawbury?" was his only greet
ing, as he bent his head down, and ran his hand
through his bushy hair.
" Lachryma Christi ?" asked Hawbury, in an
interrogative tone.
" No, thanks. That wine is a humbug. I'm
beastly thirsty, and as dry as a cinder."
Hawbury ordered the Bass, and Dacres soon
was refreshing himself with copious draughts.
The two friends presented a singular con
trast. Lord Hawbury was tall and slim, with
straight flaxen hair and flaxen whiskers, whose
long, pendent points hung down to his shoul
ders. His thin face, somewhat pale, had an
air of high refinement ; and an ineradicable
habit of lounging, together with a drawling in
tonation, gave him the appearance of being the
laziest mortal alive. Dacres, on the other hand,
was the very opposite of all this. He was as tall
as Lord Hawbury, but was broad-shouldered and
massive. He had a big head, a big mustache,
and a thick beard. His hair was dark, and
THE AMERICAN BARON.
17
covered his head in dense, bushy curls. His
voice was loud, his manner abrupt, and he al
ways sat bolt upright.
" Any thing up, Sconey ?" asked Lord Haw-
bury, after a pause, during which he had been
languidly gazing at his friend.
" Well, no, nothing, except that I've been
up Vesuvius."
Lord Hawbury gave a long whistle.
"And how did you find the mountain ?" he
asked ; "lively?"
"Rather so. In fact, infernally so," added
Dacres, thoughtfully. "Look here, Hawbury,
do you detect any smell of sulphur about me ?''
" Sulphur ! What in the name of — sulphur !
Why, now that you mention it, I do notice
something of a brimstone smell. Sulphur !
Why, man, you're as strong as a lighted match.
What have you been doing with yourself?
Down inside, eh ?"
Dacres made no answer for some time, but
sat stroking his beard with his left hand, while
his right held a cigar which he had just taken
out of a box at his elbow. His eyes were fixed
upon a point in the sky exactly half-way be
tween Capri and Baias, and about ten degrees
above the horizon.
"Hawbury," said he, solemnly, after about
two minutes of portentous silence.
"Well, old man?"
"I've had an adventure."
"An adventure! Well, don't be oashful.
Breathe forth the tale in this confiding ear."
"You see,'' said Dacres, "I started off this
morning for a ride, and had no more intention
of going to Vesuvius than to Jericho."
"I should hope not. What business has a
fellow like you with Vesuvius — a fellow that has
scaled Cotopaxi, and all that sort of thing? Not
you."
Dacres put the cigar thoughtfully in his mouth,
struck a light, and tried to light it, but couldn't.
Then he bit the end off, which he had forgotten
to do before. Then he gave three long, solemn,
and portentous puffs. Then he took the cigar
between his first and second fingers, and stretch
ed his hand out toward Hawbury.
"Hawbury, my boy," said he again.
"All right."
" You remember the time when I got that
bullet in Uruguay?"
"Yes."
"Well, I had a shot to-day."
"A shot! The deuce you had. Cool, too.
Any of those confounded bandits about? I
thought that was all rot."
"It wasn't a real shot; only figurative."
"Figurative!"
"Yes ; it was a — a girl."
" By Jove ! " cried Hawbury, starting up from
an easy posture which he had secured for him
self after fifteen minutes' shifting and changing.
" A girl ! You, Dacres, spooney ! A fellow
like you, and a girl ! By Jove !"
Hawbury fell back again, and appeared to
be vainly trying to grapple with the thought.
B
Dacres put his cigar between his lips again,
and gave one or two puffs at it, but it had gone
out. He pitched it out of the window, and
struck his hand heavily on the arm of his chair.
" Yes, Hawbury, a girl ; and spooney, too
— as spooney as blazes ; but I'll swear there
isn't such another girl upon the whole face of
the earth ; and when you bear in mind the fact
that my observation, with extended view, has
surveyed mankind from China to Peru, you'll
be able to appreciate the value of my statement."
"All right, old man; and now for the ad
venture."
' "The adventure? Well, you see, I started
for a ride. Had a misty idea of going to Sor
rento, and was jogging along among a million
pigs or so at Portici, when I overtook a car
riage that was going slowly along. There were
three ladies in it. The backs of two of them
were turned toward me, and I afterward saw
that one was old — no doubt the chaperon — and
the other was young. But the third lady, Haw
bury — Well, it's enough to say that I, who
have seen all women in all lands, have never
seen any thing like her. She was on the front
seat, with her face turned toward me. She
was small, a perfect blonde ; hair short and
curling; a round, girlish face ; dimpled cheeks,
and little mouth. Her eyes were large and
blue ; and, as she looked at me, I saw such a
bewitching innocence, such plaintive entreaty,
such pathetic trust, such helpless, childlike —
I'll be hanged if I can find words to express
what I want to say. The English language
doesn't contain them."
"Do it in Latin, then, or else skip the whole
description. All the same. I know the whole
story by heart. Love's young dream, and all
that sort of thing, you know."
"Well," continued Dacres, "there was
something so confoundedly bewitching in the
little girl's face that I found myself keeping on
at a slow pace in the rear of the carriage, and
feasting on her looks. Of course I wasn't rude
about it or demonstrative."
"Oh, of course. No demonstration. It's
ijothing to ride behind a carriage for several
hours, and ' feast' one's self on a pretty girl's
looks ! But go on, old man."
"Oh, I managed it without giving offense.
You see, there was such a beastly lot of pigs,
peasants, cows, dirty children, lazaroni, and all
that sort of thing, that it was simply impossible
to go any faster ; so you see I was compelled
to ride behind. Sometimes, indeed, I fell a
good distance back."
"And then caught up again to resume the
feast ?' "
"Well— yes."
"But I don't see what this has to do with
your going to Vesuvius."
" It has every thing to do. You see, I start
ed without any fixed purpose, and after I saw
this carriage, I kept on insensibly after it."
"Oh, I see — yes. By Jove!"
"And they drove up iu far as they could."
18
THE AMERICAN BARON.
"Yes?"
"And I followed. You see, I had nothing
else to do — and that little girl ! Besides, it was
the most natural thing in the world for me to
be going up ; and the fact that I was bent on
the same errand as themselves was sufficient to
account for my being near the carriage, and
would prevent them from supposing that I was
following them. So, you see, I followed, and
at length they stopped at the Hermitage. I
left my horse there, and strolled forward, with
out going very far away ; my only idea was to
keep the girl in sight. I had no idea that they
would go any further. To ascend the cone
seemed quite out of the question. I thought
they would rest at the Hermitage, drink some
Lachryma Christi, and go back. But to my
surprise, as I was walking about, I saw the two
young ladies come out and go toward the cone.
" I kept out of the way, as you may suppose,
and watched them, wondering what idea they
had. As they passed I heard the younger one
— the child-angel, you know, my girl — teasing
the other to make the ascent of the cone, and
the other seemed to be quite ready to agree to
the proposal.
" Now, as far as the mere ascent is con
cerned, of course yon know that is not much.
The guides were there with straps and chairs,
and that sort of thing, all ready, so that there
was no difficulty about that. The real diffi
culty was in these girls going off unattended ;
and I could only account for it by supposing
that the chaperon knew nothing whatever about
their proposal. No doubt the old lady was
tired, and the young ones went out, as she sup
posed, for a stroll ; and now, as they proposed,
this stroll meant nothing less than an ascent of
the cone. After all, there is nothing surprising
in the fact that a couple of active and spirited
girls should attempt this. From the Hermitage
it does not seem to be at all difficult, and they
had no idea of the actual nature of the task.
" What made it worse, however, was the state
of the mountain at this particular time. I don't
know whether you have taken the trouble to
raise your eyes so high as the top of Vesuvius — "
Hawbury languidly shook his head.
" Well, I supposed not ; but if you had taken
the trouble, you would have noticed an ugly
cloud which is generally regarded here as omin
ous. This morning, you know, there was an
unusually large canopy of very dirty smoke over
head. I knew by the look of things that it was
not a very pleasant place to go to. But of
course they could not be supposed to know any
thing of the kind, and their very ignorance made
them rash.
" Well, I walked along after them, not know
ing what might turn up, but determined to keep
them in sight. Those beggars with chairs were
not to be trusted, and the ladies had gold enough
about them to tempt violence. What a reck
less old devil of a chaperon she was, to let those
young girls go ! So I walked on, cursing all
the time the conventionalities of civilization
that prevented me from giving them warning.
They were rushing straight on into danger, and
I had to keep silent.
"On reaching the foot of the cone a lot of
fellows came up to them, with chairs and straps,
and that sort of thing. They employed some
of them, and, mounting the chairs, they were
carried up, while I walked up by myself at a
distance from which I could observe all that was
going on. The girls were quite merry, appeared
to be enchanted with their ride up the cone, en
joyed the novelty of the sensation, and I heard
their lively chatter and their loud peals of ring
ing laughter, and longed more than ever to be
able to speak to them.
"Now the little girl that I had first seen —
the child-angel, you know — seemed, to my
amazement, to be more adventurous than the
other. By her face you would suppose her to
be as timid as a dove, and yet on this occasion
she was the one who proposed the ascent, urged
on her companion, and answered all her objec
tions. Of course she could not have really been
so plucky as she seemed. For my part, I be
lieve the other one had more real pluck of the
two, but it was the child-angel's ignorance that
made her so bold. She went up the cone as
she would have gone up stairs, and looked at
the smoke as she would have looked at a roll
ing cloud.
"At length the bearers stopped, and signi
fied to the girls that they could not go any fur
ther. The girls could not speak Italian, or any
other language apparently than English, and
therefore could not very well make out what the
bearers were trying to say, but by their gestures
they might have known that they were warn
ing them against going any further. One might
have supposed that no warning would have been
needed, and that one look upward would have
been enough. The top of the cone rose for
upward of a hundred feet above them, its soil
composed of lava blocks and ashes intermingled
with sulphur. In this soil there were a million
cracks and crevices, from which sulphurous
smoke was issuing; and the smoke, which was
but faint and thin near where they stood, grew
denser farther up, till it intermingled with the
larger volumes that rolled up from the crater.
"Now, as I stood there, I suddenly heard a
wild proposal from the child-angel.
" 'Oh, Ethel,' she said, 'I've a great mind
to go up — ' "
Here Hawbury interrupted his friend :
" What's that ? Was that her friend's name ?"
he asked, with some animation. "Ethel? —
odd, too. Ethel ? H'm. Ethel ? Brunette,
was she ?"
"Yes."
" Odd, too ; infernally odd. But, pooh !
what rot ! Just as though there weren't a
thousand Ethels!"
"What's that you're saying about Ethel?"
asked Dacres.
"Oh, nothing, old man. Excuse my inter
rupting you. Go ahead. How did it end ?"
THE AMERICAN BARON.
11)
" Well, the child-an
gel said, ' Ethel, I've a
great mind to go up.'
' ' This proposal Eth el
scouted in ho.rror and
consternation.
" 'You must not —
you shall not ! ' she
cried.
" 'Oh, it's nothing,
it's nothing,' said the
child-angel. 'I'm dy
ing to take a peep into
the crater. It must
be awfully funny. Do
come ; do, do come,
Ethel darling.'
" ' Oh, Minnie,
don't,' cried the other,
in great alarm. And
I now learned that the
child-angel's name was
Minnie. ' Minnie,' she
cried, clinging to the
child-angel, 'you must
not go. I would not
have come up if I had
thought you would be
so unreasonable.'
" 'Ethel,' said the
other, ' you are really
getting to be quite a
scold. How ridiculous
it is in you to set your
self up in this place as
a duenna ! How can I
help goingup? and only
one peep. And I never
saw a crater in my life,
and I'm dying to know
what it looks like. I
know it's awfully funny ; and it's horrid in you
to be so unkind about it. And I really must
go. Won't you come ? Do, do, dear — dearest
darling, do — do — do!'
"Ethel was firm, however, and tried to dis
suade the other, but to no purpose ; for at length,
with a laugh, the child-angel burst away, and
skipped lightly up the slope toward the crater.
" ' Just one peep,' she said. ' Come, Ethel,
I must, I really must, you know.'
" She turned for an instant as she said this,
and I saw the glory of her child-face as it was
irradiated by a smile of exquisite sweetness.
The play of feature, the light of her eyes, and
the expression of innocence and ignorance un
conscious of danger, filled me with profound
sadness. And there was I, standing alone, see
ing that sweet child flinging herself to ruin,
and yet unable to prevent her, simply because
I was bound hand and- foot by the infernal re
strictions of a miserable and a senseless con
ventionality. Dash it, I say!"
As Dacres growled out this Hawbury eleva
ted his eyebrows, and stroked his long, pend
ent whiskers lazily with his left hand, while
' i SAW HER
with his right he drummed on the table near
him.
"Well," resumed Dacres, "the child-angel
ran up for some distance, leaving Ethel behind.
Ethel called after her for some time, and then
began to follow her up. Meanwhile the guides,
who had thus far stood apart, suddenly caught
sight of the child -angel's figure, and, with a
loud warning cry, they ran after her. They
seemed to me, however, to be a lazy lot, for
they scarce got up as far as the place where
Ethel was. Now, you know, all this time I
was doomed to inaction. But at this juncture
I strolled carelessly along, pretending not to
see any thing in particular ; and so, taking up
an easy attitude, I waited for the de'nouement.
It was a terrible position too. That child-an
gel ! I would have laid down my life for her,
but I had to stand idle, and see her rush to
fling her life away. And all because I had not
happened to have the mere formality of an in
troduction.
"Well, you know, I stood there waiting for
the denouement. Now it happened that, as
the child -angel went up, a brisk breeze had
20
THE AMERICAN BARON.
started, which blew away all the smoke, so that
she went along for some distance without any
apparent inconvenience. I saw her reach the
top ; I saw her turn and wave her hand in tri
umph. Then I saw her rush forward quickly
and nimbly straight toward the crater. She
seemed to go down into it. And then the wind
changed or died away, or both, for there came
a vast cloud of rolling smoke, black, cruel, suf
focating ; and the mountain crest and the child-
angel were snatched from my sight.
"I was roused by a shriek from Ethel. I
saw her rush up the slope, and struggle in a
vain endeavor to save her friend. But before
she had taken a dozen steps down came the
rolling smoke, black, wrathful, and sulphurous;
and I saw her crouch down and stagger back,
and finally emerge pale as death, and gasping
for breath. She saw me as I stood there ; in
fact, I had moved a little nearer.
'"Oh, Sir,' she cried, 'save her! Oh, my
God, she's lost!'
"This was very informal, you know, and all
that sort of thing; but she had broken the ice,
and had accosted me ; so I waived all cere
mony, and considered the introduction suffi
cient. I took off my hat, and told her to calm
herself.
"But she only wrung her hands, and im
plored me to save her friend.
" And now, my boy, lucky was it for me that
my experience at Cotopaxi and Popocatepetl
had been so thorough and so peculiar. My
knowledge came into play at this time. I took
my felt hat and put it over my mouth, and then
tied it around my neck so that the felt rim came
over my cheeks and throat. Thus I secured a
plentiful supply of air, and the felt acted as a
kind of ventilator to prevent the access to my
lungs of too much of the sulphurous vapor. Of
course such a contrivance would not be good
,for more than five minutes; but then, you know,
five minutes were all that I wanted.
" So up I rushed, and, as the slope was only
about a hundred feet, I soon reached the top.
Here I could see nothing whatever. The tre
mendous smoke-clouds rolled all about on ev
ery side, enveloping me in their dense folds, 'and
shutting every thing from view. I heard the
cry of the asses of guides, who were howling
where I left them below, and were crying to me
to come back — the infernal idiots ! The smoke
was impenetrable ; so I got down on my hands
.and knees and groped about. I was on her
track, and knew she could not be far away. I
could not spend more than five minutes there,
for my felt hat would not assist me any longer.
About two minutes had already passed. An
other minute was taken up in creeping about on
my hands and knees. A half minute more fol
lowed. I was in despair. The child-angel I
saw must have run in much further than I had
supposed, and perhaps I could not find her at
all. A sickening fear came to me that she had
.grown dizzy, or had slid down over the loose
sand into the terrific abyss of the crater itself.
So another half minute passed ; and now only
one minute was left."
"I don't see how you managed to be so con
foundedly accurate in your reckoning. How
was it? You didn't carry your watch in one
hand, and feel about with the other, I sup
pose ?"
" No ; but I looked at my watch at intervals.
But never mind that. Four minutes, as I said,
were up, and only one minute remained, and
that was not enough to take me back. I was
at the last gasp already, and on the verge of
despair, when suddenly, as I crawled on, there
lay the child-angel full before me, within my
reach.
"Yes," continued Dacres, after a pause,
"there she lay, just in my grasp, just at my
own last gasp. One second more and it must
have been all up. She was senseless, of course.
I caught her up ; I rose and ran back as quick
as I could, bearing my precious burden. She
was as light as a feather — no weight at all. I
carried her as tenderly as if she was a little
baby. As I emerged from the smoke Ethel
rushed up to me and set up a cry, but I told her
to keep quiet and it would be all right. Then
I directed the guides to carry her down, and I
myself then carried down the child-angel.
" You see I wasn't going to give her up. I
had had hard work enough getting her. Besides,
the atmosphere up there was horrible. It was
necessary, first of all, to get her down to the
foot of the cone, where ^he could have pure air,
and then resuscitate her. Therefore I directed
the guides to take down Ethel in a chair, while
I carried down the child-angel. They had to
carry her down over the lava blocks, but I went
to a part of the cone where it was all loose
sand, and went down flying. I was at the bot
tom a full half hour before the others.
" Then I laid her upon the loose sand ; and
I swear to you, Hawbury, never in all my life
have I seen such a sight. She lay there be
fore my eyes a picture of loveliness beyond im
agination — as beautiful as a dream — more like
a child-angel than ever. Her hair clustered in
golden curls over her white brow, her little
hands were folded meekly over her breast, her
lips were parted into a sweet smile, the gentle
eyes no longer looked at me with the piteous,
pleading, trustful, innocent expression which I
had noticed in them before, and her hearing
was deaf to the words of love and tenderness
that I lavished upon her."
" Good ! " muttered Hawbury ; " you talk like
a novel. Drive on, old man. I'm really begin
ning to feel excited."
"The fact is," said Dacres, "I have a cer
tain set of expressions about the child-angel
that will come whenever I begin to describe
tier."
"It strikes me, though, that you are getting
on pretty well. You were speaking of 'love
and tenderness.' Well?"
"Well, she lay there senseless, you know,
and I gently unclasped her hands and began to
21
THE AMERICAN BARON.
' ^§5u
"l BENT DOWN CLOSE."
rub them. I think the motion of carrying her,
and the fresh air, had both produced a favora
ble effect ; for I had not rubbed her hands ten
minutes when she gave a low sigh. Then I
rubbed on, and her lips moved. I bent down
close so as to listen, and I heard her say, in a
low voice,
" 'Am I at home?'
" 'Yes,' said I, gently, for I thought it was
best to humor her delirious fancy.
" Then she spoke again :
" ' Is that you, papa dear ?'
" ' Yes, darling, ' said I, in a low voice ; and I
kissed her in a kind of paternal way, so as to
reassure her, and comfort her, and soothe her,
and all that sort of thing, you know."
At this Hawbury burst into a shout of laugh
ter.
"What the mischief are you making that
beastly row about ?" growled Dacres.
" Excuse me, old boy. I couldn't help it.
It was at the idea of your doing the father so
gravely. "
" Well, am I not old enough to be her father ?
What else could I do ? She had such a plead
ing, piteous way. By Jove ! Besides, how did
she know any thing about it ? It wasn't as if
she was in her senses. She really thought I
was her father, you know. And I'm sure I al
most felt as if I was, too. "
"All right, old man, don't get huffy. Drive
on."
" Well, you know, she kept her eyes closed,
and didn't say another word till she heard the
voice of Ethel at a distance. Then she opened
her eyes, and got up on her feet. Then there
was no end of a row — kissing, crying, congratu
lating, reproaching, and all that sort of thing.
I withdrew to a respectful distance and waited.
After a time they both came to me, and the
child-angel gave me a look that made me long
to be a father to her again. She held out her
little hand, and I took it and pressed it, with
my heart beating awfully. I was horribly em
barrassed.
" ' I'm awfully grateful to you,' she said ; 'I'm
sure I'd do any thing in the world to repay you.
I'm sure I don't know what would have become
of me if it hadn't been for you. And I hope
you'll excuse me for putting you to so much
22
THE AMERICAN BARON.
trouble. And, oh !' she concluded, halt to her
self, ' what will Kitty say now ?' "
"Kitty! Who's Kitty?"
" I don't know."
"All right. Never mind. Drive on, old
chap."
" Well, I mumbled something or other, and
then offered to go and get their carriage. But
they would not hear of it. The child-angel
said she could walk. This I strongly dissuaded
her from doing, and Ethel insisted that the men
should carry her. This was done, and in a
short time we got back to the Hermitage, where
the old lady was in no end of a worry. In the
midst of the- row I slipped away, and waited
till the carriage drove off. Then I followed at
a sufficient distance not to be observed, and
saw where their house was."
m 4
TUB MEETING.
CHAPTER V.
THE BEGINNING OF BLUNDERS.
DACRES paused now, and lighting a fresh ci
gar, smoked away at it in silence, with long and
solemn and regular puffs. Hawbury watched
him for some time, with a look of dreamy cu
riosity and lazy interest. Then he rose, and
dawdled about the room for a few minutes.
Then he lighted a cigar, and finally, resuming
his seat, he said :
'By Jove!"
acres puffed on.
•'I'm beginning to think," said Hawbury,
" that your first statement is correct. You are
shot, my boy — hit hard — and all that ; and now
I should like to ask you one question."
" Ask away."
"What are you going to do about it? Do
you intend to pursue the acquaintance ?"
" Of course. Why not ?"
"What do you intend to do next?"
" Next ? Why, call on her, and inquire
after her health."
"Very good."
"Well, have you any thing to say against
that ?"
"Certainly not. Only it surprises me a
little."
"Why?"
" Because I never thought of Scone Dacres
as a marrying man, and can't altogether grap
ple with the idea."
"I don't see why a fellow shouldn't marry
if he wants to," said Dacres. " What's the
matter with me that I shouldn't get married as
well as lots of fellows ?"
"No reason in the world, my dear boy.
Marry as many wives as you choose. My re
mark referred merely to my own idea of you,
and not to any thing actually innate m your
character. So don't get huffy at a fellow."
Some further conversation followed, and Da
cres finally took his departure, full of thoughts
about his new acquaintance, and racking his
brains to devise some way of securing access
to her.
On the following evening he made his ap
pearance once more at Hawbury's rooms.
"Well, old man, what's up? Any thing
more about the child-angel ?"
" Well, a little. I've found out her name."
"Ah! What is it?"
"Fay. Her name is Minnie Fay."
" Minnie Fay. I never heard of the name
before. Who are her people ?"
"She is traveling with Lady Dalrymple."
' The Dowager, I suppose ?"
'Yes."
Who are the other ladies ?"
Wellj I don't exactly remember."
Didn't you find out?"
' Yes ; I heard all their names, but I've for
gotten. I know one of them is the child-
angel's sister, and the other is her cousin. The
one I saw with her was probably the sister."
"What, the one named Ethel?"
"Yes."
" Ethel— Ethel Fay. H'm,'' said Hawbury,
in a tone of disappointment. "I knew it would
be so. There are so many Ethels about."
"What's that?"
" Oh, nothing. I once knew a girl namea
Ethel, and — Well, I had a faint idea that it
would be odd if this should be the one. But
there's no such chance."
"Oh, the name Ethel is common enough."
" Well, and didn't you find out any thing
about her people?"
" Whose— Ethel's ?"
"Your child-angel's people."
"No. What do I care about her people?
They might be Jews or Patagonians for all I
oare."
" Still I should think your interest in her
would make you ask."
"Oh no; my interest refers to herself, not
THE AMERICAN BARON.
23
to her relatives. Her sister Ethel is certainly
a deuced pretty girl, though.'"
" Sconey, my boy, I'm afraid you're getting
demoralized. Why, I remember the time when
you regarded the whole female race with a lofty
scorn and a profound indifference that was a
perpetual rebuke to more inflammable natures.
But now what a change ! Here you are, with
a finely developed eye for female beauty, actu
ally reveling in dreams of child-angels and
their sisters. By Jove !"
"Nonsense," said Dacres.
" Well, drive on, and tell all about it. You've
seen her, of course?"
" Oh yes."
"Did you call?"
" Yes ; she was not at home. I went away
with a snubbed and subdued feeling, and rode
along near the Villa Reale, when suddenly I
met the carriage with Lady Dalrymple and the
child-angel. She knew me at once, and gave
a little start. Then she looked awfully embar
rassed. Then she turned to Lady Dalrymple ;
and by the time I had got up the carriage had
stopped, and the ladies both looked at me and
bowed. I went up, and they both held out
their hands. Lady Dalrymple then made'some
remarks expressive of gratitude, while the
child-angel sat and fastened her wonderful eyes
on me, and threw at me such a pleading, touch
ing, entreating, piteous, grateful, beseeching
look, that I fairly collapsed.
"When Lady Dalrymple stopped, she turned
to her and said :
" ' And oh, aunty darling, did you ever hear
of any thing like it ? It was so brave. Wasn't
it an awfully plucky thing to do, now ? And I
was really inside the crater ! I'm sure / never
could have done such a thing — no, not even for
my own papa! Oh, how I do wish I could do
something to show how awfully grateful I am !
And, aunty darling, I do wish you'd tell me
what to do.'
"All this quite turned my head, and I
couldn't say any thing ; but sat on my saddle,
devouring the little thing with my eyes, and
drinking in the wonderful look which she threw
at me. At last the carriage started, and the
ladies, with a pleasant smile, drove on. I think
I stood still there for about five minutes, until
I was nearly run down by one of those beastly
Neapolitan caleches loaded with twenty or
thirty natives."
"See here, old man, what a confoundedly
good memory you have! You remember no
end of a lot of things, and give all her speeches
verbatim. What a capital newspaper reporter
you'd make!"
"Oh, it's only her words, you know. She
quickens my memory, and makes a different
man of me."
"By Jove!"
"Yes, old chap, a different man altogether."
"So I say, by Jove! Head turned, eyes
distorted, heart generally upset, circulation
brought up to fever point, peace of mind gone,
and a general mania in the place of the old
self-reliance and content."
" Not content, old boy ; I never had much
of that."
" Well, we won't argue, will we ? But as to
the child-angel — what next? You'll call again?"
" Of course."
"When?"
"To-morrow."
"Strike while the iron is hot, hey? Well,
old man, I'll stand by you. Still I wish you
could find out who her people are, just to satis
fy a legitimate curiosity."
"Well, I don't know the Fays, but Lady
Dalrymple is her aunt ; and I know, too, that
she is a niece of Sir Gilbert Biggs."
' ' What ! " cried Hawbury, starting. " Who ?
Sir what ?"
"Sir Gilbert Biggs."
"Sir Gilbert Biggs?"
"Yes."
" Sir Gilbert Biggs ! By Jove ! Are you
sure you are right ? Come, now. Isn't there
some mistake ?"
" Not a bit of a mistake ; she's a niece of
Sir Gilbert. I remember that, because the
name is a familiar one."
" Familiar J" repeated Hawbury; "I should
think so. By Jove ! "
Hawbury here relapsed into silence, and sat
with a frown on his face, and a puzzled expres
sion. At times he would mutter such words
as, "Deuced odd!" "Confounded queer!"
"What a lot!" "By Jove!" while Dacres
looked at him in some surprise.
"Look here, old fellow!" said he at last.
" Will you have the kindness to inform me what
there is in the little fact I just mentioned to up
set a man of your size, age, fighting weight,
and general coolness of blood?"
"Well, there is a deuced odd coincidence
about it, that's all. "
" Coincidence with what ?"
" Well, I'll tell some other time. It's a sore
subject, old fellow. Another time, my boy.
I'll only mention now that it's the cause of my
present absence from England. There's a both
er that I don't care to encounter, and Sir Gil
bert Biggs's nieces are at the bottom of it."
"You don't mean this one, I hope?" cried
Dacres, in some alarm.
" Heaven forbid ! ByJove! No. Ihopenot."
"No, I hope not, by Jove!" echoed the other.
"Well, old man," said Hawbury, after a fit
of silence, " I suppose you'll push matters on
now, hard and fast, and launch yourself into
matrimony ?"
"Well — I — suppose — so," said Dacres, hes
itatingly.
"You suppose so. Of course yon will.
Don't I know you, old chap ? Impetuous,
tenacious of purpose, iron will, one idea, and
all that sort of thing. Of course you will ; and
you'll be married in a month."
"Well," said Dacres, in the same hesitating
way, "not so soon as that, I'm afraid."
THE AMERICAN BARON.
"Why not?"
" Why, I have to get the lady first."
" The lady ; oh, she seems to be willing
enough, judging from your description. Her
pleading look at you. Why, man, there was
love at first sight. Then tumbling down the
crater of a volcano, and getting fished out.
Why, man, what woman could resist a claim
like that, especially when it is enforced by a
man like Scone Dacres ? And, by Jove ! Sco-
ney, allow me to inform you that I've always
considered you a most infernally handsome
man ; and what's more, my opinion is worth
something, by Jove !"
Hereupon Hawbury stretched his head and
shoulders back, and pulled away with each
hand at his long yellow pendent whiskers. Then
he yawned. And then he slowly ejaculated,
"By Jove!"
"Well," said Dacres, thoughtfully, "there
is something in what you say ; and, to tell the
truth, I think there's not a bad chance for me,
so far as the lady herself is concerned ; but the
difficulty is not in that quarter."
" Not in that quarter ! Why, where the mis
chief else could there be any difficulty, man ?"
Dacres was silent.
"You're eager enough?"
Dacres nodded his head sadly.
" Eager ! why, eager isn't the word. You're
mad, man — mad as a March hare! So go in
and win."
Dacres said nothing.
"You're rich, not over old, handsome, well
born, well bred, and have saved the lady's life
by extricating her from the crater of a volcano.
She seems too young and childlike to have had
any other affairs. She's probably just out of
school ; not been into society ; not come out ;
just the girl. Confound these girls, I say, that
have gone through engagements with other fel
lows !"
"Oh, as to that," said Dacres, "this little
thing is just like a child, and in her very sim
plicity does not know what love is. Engage
ment ! By Jove, I don't believe she knows the
meaning of the word ! She's perfectly fresh,
artless, simple, and guileless. I don't believe
she ever heard a word of sentiment or tender
ness from any man in her life."
" Very likely ; so where's the difficulty?"
" Well, to tell the truth, the difficulty is in
my own affairs."
" Your affairs ! Odd, too. What's up? I
didn't know any thing had happened. That's
too infernal bad, too."
"Oh, it's nothing of that sort; money's all
right ; no swindle. It's an affair of another
character altogether."
"Oh!"
"And one, too, that makes me think that — "
He hesitated.
"That what?"
"That I'd better start for Australia."
"Australia!"
"Yes."
"What's the meaning of that?"
"Why," said Dacres, gloomily, "it means
giving up the child-angel, and trying to forget
her — if I ever can."
"Forget her! What's the meaning of all
this? Why, man, five minutes ago you were
all on fire about her, and now you talk quietly
about giving her up ! I'm all adrift."
"Well, it's a mixed up matter."
" What is ?"
"My affair."
"Your affair; something that has happen
ed?"
"Yes. It's a sore matter, and I don't care
to speak about it just now."
"Oh!"
"And it's the real cause why I don't go back
to England."
"The mischief it is! Why, Dacres, I'll be
hanged if you're not using the very words I
myself used a few minutes ago."
" Am I ?" said Dacres, gloomily.
" You certainly are ; and that makes me
think that our affairs are in a similar complica
tion."
" Oh no ; mine is very peculiar."
"Well, there's one thing I should like to ask,
and you needn't answer unless you like."
"Well?"
"Doesn't your difficulty arise from some con
founded woman or other ?"
"Well — yes."
" By Jove, I knew it ! And, old fellow, I'm
in the same situation."
" BY JOVE, I KNEW IT !"
" Oh ho ! So you're driven away from En
gland by a woman ?"
" Exactly."
Dacres sighed heavily.
"Yours can't be as bad as mine," said he,
with a dismal look. " Mine is the worst scrape
that ever you heard of. And look at me now,
with the child-angel all ready to take me, and
me not able to be taken. Confound the abom
inable complications of an accursed civilization,
I say !"
"And I say, Amen!" said Hawbury.
THE AMERICAN BARON.
25
CHAPTER VI.
THE FIERY TRIAL.
"SEE here, old chap," said Hawbury, "I'm
going to make a clean breast of it."
"Of what?"
"Of my affair."
"That's right," said Dacres, dolefully. "I
should like of all things to hear it."
" You see I wouldn't tell you, only you your
self turn out to be in a similar situation, and
so what I have to say may prove of use to you.
At any rate, you may give me some useful sug
gestion.
" Very well, then, " continued Hawbury — ' ' to
begin. You may remember that I told you
when we met here where I had been passing
the time since I saw you last. "
Dacres nodded assent.
" Well, about two years ago I was in Cana
da. I went there for sport, and plunged at
once into the wilderness. And let me tell
you it's a very pretty country for hunting.
Lots of game — fish, flesh, and fowl — from the
cariboo down to the smallest trout that you
would care to hook. Glorious country ; mag
nificent forests waiting for the lumberman; air
that acts on you like wine, or even better ; riv
ers and lakes in all directions ; no end of sport
and all that sort of thing, you know. Have you
ever been in Canada ?"
" Only traveled through."
"Well, the next time you feel inclined for
high art sport we'll go together, and have no
end of fun — that is, if you're not married and
done for, which, of course, you will be. No mat
ter. I was saying that I was in a fine country.
I spent a couple of months there with two or
three Indians, and at length started for Ottawa
on my way home. The Indians put me on the
right path, after which I dismissed them, and
set out alone with my gun and fishing-rod.
" The first day was all very well, and I slept
well enough the first night ; but on the morn
ing of the second day I found the air full of
smoke. However, I did not giv,e much thought
to that, for there had been a smoky look about
the sky for a week, and the woods are always
burning there, I believe, in one place or an
other. I kept on, and shot enough for food,
and thus the second day passed. That evening
the air was quite suffocating, and it was as hot
as an oven. I struggled through the night, I
don't know how ; and then on the third day
made another start. This third day was abom
inable. The atmosphere was beastly hot ; the
sky was a dull yellow, and the birds seemed to
have all disappeared. As I went on it grew
worse, but I found it was not because the fires
were in front of me. On the contrary, they
were behind me, and were driving on so that
they were gradually approaching nearer. I
could do my thirty miles a day even in that
rough country, but the fires could do more. At
last I came into a track that was a little wider
than the first one. As I went on I met cattle
which appeared stupefied. Showers of dust
were in the air ; the atmosphere was worse
than ever, and I never had such difficulty in
my life in walking along. I had to throw
away my rifle and fishing-rod, and was just
thinking of pitching my clothes after them,
when suddenly I turned a bend in the path,
and met a young girl full in the face.
"By Jove ! I swear I never was so astound
ed in my life. I hurried up to her, and just
began to ask where I was, when she interrupt
ed me with a question of the same kind. By-
the-way, I forgot to say that she was on
horseback. The poor devil of a horse seemed
to have had a deuced hard time of it too, for he
was trembling from head to foot, though wheth
er that arose from fatigue or fright I don't know.
Perhaps it was both.
" Well, the girl was evidently very much
alarmed. She was awfully pale ; she was a
monstrous pretty girl too — the prettiest by all
odds I ever saw, and that's saying a good deal.
By JoVe ! Well, it turned out that she had been
stopping in the back country for a month, at a
house somewhere up the river, with her father.
Her father had gone down to Ottawa a week be
fore, and was expected back on this day. She
had come out to meet him, and had lost her
way. She had been out for hours, and was
completely bewildered. She was also fright
ened at the fires, which now seemed to be all
around us. This she told me in a few words,
and asked if I knew where the river was.
" Of course I knew no more than she did,
and it needed only a few words from me to show
her that I was as much in the dark as she was.
I began to question her, however, as to this riv
er, for it struck me that in the present state of
affairs a river would not be a bad thing to have
near one. In answer to my question she said
that she had come upon this road from the
woods on the left, and therefore it was evi
dent that the river lay in that direction.
" I assured her that I would do whatever lay
in my power ; and with that I walked on in the
direction in which I had been going, while she
rode by my side. Some further questions as to
the situation of the house where she had been
staying showed me that it was on the banks of
the river about fifty miles above Ottawa. By
my own calculations I was about that distance
away. It seemed to me, then, that she had got
lost in the woods, and had wandered thus over
some trail to the path where she had met me.
Every thing served to show me that the river
lay to the left, and so I resolved to turn in at
the first path which I reached.
" At length, after about two miles, we came
to a path which went into the woods. My com
panion was sure that this was the very one by
which she had come out, and this confirmed the
impression which the sight of it had given me.
I thought it certainly must lead toward the riv
er. So we turned into this path. I went first,
and she followed, and so we went for about a
couple of miles further.
2G
THE AMERICAN BARON.
"All this time the heat had been getting
worse and worse. The air was more smoky
than ever ; my mouth was parched and dry. I
breathed with difficulty, and could scarcely drag
one leg after another. The lady was almost as
much exhausted as I was, and suffered acutely,
as I could easily see, though she uttered not a
word of complaint. Her horse also suffered ter
ribly, and did not seem able to bear her weight
much longer. The poor brute trembled and
staggered, and once or twice stopped, so that it
was difficult to start him again. The road had
gone in a winding way, but was not so crooked
as I expected. I afterward found that she had
gone by other paths until she had found herself
in thick woods, and then on trying to retrace
her way she had strayed into this path. If she
had turned to the left on first reaching it, in
stead of to the right, the fate of each of us would
have been different. Our meeting was no doubt
the salvation of both.
"There was a wooded eminence in front,
which we had been steadily approaching for
some time. At last we reached the top. and
here a scene burst upon us which was rather
startling. The hill was high enough to com
mand an extensive view, and the first thing
that we saw was a vast extent of woods and
water and smoke. By-and-by we were able to
distinguish each. The water was the river, which
could be seen for miles. Up the river toward
the left the smoke arose in great volumes, cov
ering every thing ; while in front of us, and im
mediately between us and the river, there was a
line of smoke which showed that the fires had
penetrated there and had intercepted us.
" We stood still in bewilderment. I looked
all around. To go back was as bad as to go
forward, for there, also, a line of smoke arose
which showed the progress of the flames. To
the right there was less smoke ; but in that
direction there was only a wilderness, through
which we could not hope to pass for any dis
tance. The only hope was the river. If we
could traverse the flames in that direction, so
as to reach the water, we would be safe. In a
few words I communicated my decision to my
companion. She said nothing, but bowed her
head in acquiescence.
" Without delaying any longer we resumed
our walk. After about a mile we found our
selves compelled once more to halt. The view
here was worse than ever. The path was now
as wide as an ordinary road, and grew wider
still as it went on. It was evidently used to
haul logs down to the river, and as it approach
ed the bank it grew steadily wider ; but be
tween us and the river the woods were all burn
ing. The first rush of the fire was over, and
now we looked forward and saw a vast array of
columns — the trunks of burned trees — some
blackened and charred, others glowing red.
The ground below was also glowing red, with
blackened spaces here and there.
" Still the burned tract was but a strip, and
there lay our hope. The fire, by some strange
means, had passed on a track not wider than a
hundred yards, and this was what had to be
traversed by us. The question was, whether
we could pass through that or not. The same
question came to both of us, and neither of us
said a word. But before I could ask the lady
about it, her horse became frightened at the
flames. I advised her to dismount, for I knew
that the poor brute could never be forced
through those fires. She did so, and the horse,
with a horrible snort, turned and galloped wild
ly away.
" I now looked around once more, and saw
that there was no escape except in front. The
flames were encircling us, and a vast cloud of
smoke surrounded us every where, rising far up
and rolling overhead. Cinders fell in immense
showers, and the fine ashes, with which the air
was filled, choked us and got into our eyes.
" ' There is only one chance,' said I ; ' and
that is to make a dash for the river. Can you
do it ?'
" ' I'll try,' she said.
" ' We'll have to go through the fires.'
" She nodded.
" ' WTell, then,' I said, 'do as I say. Take
off your sacque and wrap it around your head
and shoulders.'
" She took off her sacque at this. It was a
loose robe of merino or alpaca, or something
of that sort, and very well suited for what I
wanted. I wrapped it round her so as to pro
tect her face, head, and shoulders ; and taking
off my coat I did the same.
" 'Now,' said I, ' hold your breath as well as
you can. You may keep your eyes shut. Give
me your hand — I'll lead you.'
" Taking her hand I led her forward at a
rapid pace. Once she fell, but she quickly re
covered herself, and soon we reached the edge
of the flames.
" I tell you what it is, my boy, the heat was
terrific, and the sight was more so. The river
was not more than a hundred yards away, but
between us and it there lay what seemed as bad
as the burning fiery furnace of Messrs. Sha-
drach, Meshach, and Abednego. If I were now
standing there, I don't think I could face it.
But then I was with the girl ; I had to save her.
Fire was behind us, racing after us ; water lay
in front. Once there and we were safe. It
was not a time to dawdle or hesitate, I can as
sure yon.
" ' Now,' said I, ' run for your life !'
" Grasping her hand more firmly, I started
off with her at the full run. The place was ter
rible, and grew worse at every step. The road
here was about fifty feet wide. On each side
was the burning forest, with a row of burned
trees like fiery columns, and the moss and
underbrush still glowing beneath. To pass
through that was a thing that it don't do to
look back upon. The air was intolerable. I
wrapped my coat tighter over my head ; my
arms were thus exposed, and I felt the heat on
my hands. But that was nothing to the tor-
THE AMERICAN BARON.
27
TUB FIEKY TBIAL.
ments that I endured from trying to breathe.
Besides this, the enormous effort of keeping up
a run made breathing all the more difficult. A
feeling of despair came over me. Already we
had gone half the distance, but at that moment
the space seemed lengthened out interminably,
and I looked in horror at the rest of the way,
with a feeling of the utter impossibility of trav
ersing it.
" Suddenly the lady fell headlong. I stopped
and raised her up. My coat fell off; I felt the
fiery air all round my face and head. I called
and screamed to the lady as I tried to raise her
up ; but she said nothing. She was as lifeless
as a stone.
" Well, my boy, I thought it was all up with
me ; but I, at least, could stand, though I did
not think that I could take another breath. As
for the lady, there was no help for it ; so I grasped
her with all my strength, still keeping her head
covered as well as I could, and slung her over
my shoulders. Then away I ran. I don't re
member much after that. I must have lost my
senses then, and, what is more, I must have ac
complished the rest of the journey in that semi-
unconscious state.
" What I do remember is this — a wild plunge
into the water ; and the delicious coolness that I
felt all around restored me, and I at once com
prehended all. The lady was by my side ; the
shock and the cool water had restored her also.
She was standing up to her shoulders just where
she had fallen, and was panting and sobbing. I
spoke a few words of good cheer, and then look
ed around for some place of refuge. Just where
we stood there was nothing but fire and deso
lation, and it was necessary to go further away.
Well, some distance out, about half-way across
the river, I saw a little island, with rocky sides,
and trees on the top. It looked safe and cool
and inviting. I determined to try to get there.
Some deals were in the water by the bank,
which had probably floated down from some
saw-mill. I took half a dozen of these, flung
two or three more on top of them, and then told
the lady my plan. It was to float out to the
island by means of this raft. I offered to put
her' on it and let her float ; but she refused,
preferring to be in the water.
"The river was pretty wide here, and the
water was shallow, so that we were able to wade
for. a long distance, pushing the raft before us.
At length it became deep, and then the lady
held on while I floated and tried to direct the
raft toward the island. I had managed while
wading to guide the raft up the stream, so that
when we got into deep water the current car
ried us toward the island. At length we
reached it without much difficulty, and then,
utterly worn out, I fell down on the grass, and
either fainted away or fell asleep.
"When I revived I had several very queer
sensations. The first thing that I noticed was
that I hadn't any whiskers."
"What! no whiskers?"
" No — all gone ; and my eyebrows and mus
tache, and every wisp of hair from my head."
" See here, old fellow, do you mean to say
that you've only taken one year to grow those
infernally long whiskers that you have now ?"
"It's a fact, my boy!"
" I wouldn't have believed it ; but some fel
lows can do such extraordinary things. But
drive on."
" Well, the next thing I noticed was that it
was as smoky as ever. Then I jumped up and
looked around. I felt quite dry, though it
seemed as if I had just come from the river.
As I jumped up and turned I saw my friend.
She looked much better than she had. Her
clothes also were quite dry. She greeted me
with a mournful smile, and rose up from the
trunk of a tree where she had been sitting, and
made inquiries after my health with the most
earnest and tender sympathy.
" I told her I was all right, laughed about
my hair, and inquired very anxiously how she
was. She assured me that she was as well as
ever. Some conversation followed ; and then,
to my amazement, I found that I had slept for
an immense time, or had been unconscious,
whichever it was, and that the adventure had
28
THE AMERICAN BARON.
"AIA GONE; MY EYEUROWB, AND MUSTACHE, AND EVEBY WISP OF HAIB FBOM MY HEAD."
taken place on the preceding day. It was now
about the middle of the next day. You may
imagine how confounded I was at that.
"The air was still abominably close and
smoky ; so I looked about the island, and found
a huge crevice in the rocks, which was almost
a cave. It was close by the water, and was far
cooler than outside. In fact, it was rather com
fortable than otherwise. Here we took refuge,
and talked over our situation. As far as we
could see, the whole country was burned up.
A vast cloud of smoke hung over all. One
comfort was that the glow had ceased on the
river-bank, and only a blackened forest now
remained, with giant trees arising, all blasted.
We found that our stay would be a protracted
one.
" The first thing that I thought of was food.
Fortunately I had my hooks and lines ; so I cut
a pole, and fastening my line to it, I succeeded
in catching a few fish.
" We lived there for two days on fish in that
manner. The lady was sad and anxious. I
tried to cheer her up. Her chief trouble was
the fear that her father was lost. In the course
of our conversations I found out that her name
was Ethel Orne."
"Ethel Orne?"
"Yes."
"Don't think I ever heard the name be
fore. Orne ? No, I'm sure I haven't. It isn't
Horn ?"
" No ; Orne— O R N E. Oh, there's no trou
ble about that.
"Well, I rather enjoyed this island life, but
she was awfully melancholy ; so I hit upon a
plan for getting away. I went to the shore and
collected a lot of the deals that I mentioned,
and made a very decent sort of raft. I found
a pole to guide it with, cut a lot of brush for
Ethel, and then we started, and floated down
the river. We didn't have any accidents. The
only bother was that she was too confoundedly
anxious about me, and wouldn't let me work.
We went ashore every evening. We caught
fish enough to eat. We were afloat three days,
and, naturally enough, became very well ac
quainted."
Hawbury stopped, and sighed.
"I tell you what it is, Dacres," said he,
THE AMERICAN BARON.
29
" there never lived a nobler, more generous,
and at the same time a braver soul than Ethel
Orne. She never said a word about gratitude
and all that, but there was a certain quiet look
of devotion about her that gives me a deuced
queer feeling now when I think of it all."
"And I dare say — But no matter."
"What?"
" Well, I was only going to remark that, un
der the circumstances, there might have been a
good deal of quiet devotion about you."
Hawbury made no reply, but sat silent for a
time.
" Well, go on, man ; don't keep me in sus
pense."
" Let me see — where was I ? Oh ! floating on
the raft. Well, we floated that way, as I said,
for three days, and at the end of that time we
reached a settlement. Here we found a steam
er, and went on further, and finally reached
Ottawa. Here she went to the house of a
friend. I called on her as soon as possible,
and found her in fearful anxiety. She had
learned that her father had gone up with a Mr.
Willoughby, and neither had been heard from.
" Startled at this intelligence, I instituted a
search myself. I could not find out any thing,
but only that there was good reason to believe
that both of the unhappy gentlemen had per
ished. On returning to the house to call on
Ethel, about a week after, I found that she had
received full confirmation of this dreadful intel
ligence, and had gone to Montreal. It seems
that Willoughby's wife was a relative of Ethel's,
and she had gone to stay with her. I longed
to see her, but of course I could not intrude
upon her in her grief; and so I wrote to her,
expressing all the condolence I could. I told
her that I was going to Europe, but would re
turn in the following year. I couldn't say any
more than that, you know. It wasn't a time
for sentiment, of course.
" Well, I received a short note in reply. She
said she would look forward to seeing me again
with pleasure, and all that ; and that she could
never forget the days we had spent together.
"So off I went, and in the following year I
returned. But on reaching Montreal, what was
my disgust, on calling at Mrs. Willoughby's, to
find that she had given up her house, sold her
furniture, and left the city. No one knew any
thing about her, and they said that she had only
come to the city a few months before her be
reavement, and after that had never made any
acquaintances. Some said she had gone to the
United States ; others thought she had gone to
Quebec ; others to England ; but no one knew
any thing more."
CHAPTER VII.
A STARTLING REVELATION.
"!T seems to me, Hawbury," said Dacres,
after a period of thoughtful silence — " it seems
to me that when you talk of people having their
heads turned, you yourself comprehend the full
meaning of that sensation ?"
" Somewhat."
" You knocked under at once, of course, to
your Ethel?"
"Yes."
" And feel the same way toward her yet ?"
"Yes."
" Hit hard ?"
" Yes ; and that's what I'm coming to. The
fact is, my whole business in life for the last year
has been to find her out."
"You haven't dawdled so much, then, as
people suppose ?"
" No ; that's all very well to throw people
oiF a fellow's scent ; but you know me well
enough, Dacres ; and we didn't dawdle much
in South America, did we ?"
" That's true, my boy ; but as to this lady,
what is it that makes it so hard for you to find
her ? In the first place, is she an American ?"
"Oh no."
"Why not?"
" Oh, accent, manner, tone, idiom, and a
hundred other things. Why, of course, you
know as well as I that an .American lady is as
different from an English as a French or a Ger
man lady is. They may be all equally ladies,
but each nation has its own peculiarities."
"Is she Canadian?"
"Possibly. It is not always easy to tell a
Canadian lady from an English. They imitate
us out there a good deal. I could tell in the
majority of cases, but there are many who can
not be distinguished from us very easily. And
Ethel may be one."
" Why mayn't she be English?"
"She may be. It's impossible to perceive
any difference."
"Have you ever made any inquiries about
her in England ?"
" No ; I've not been in England much, and
from the way she talked to me I concluded that
her home was in Canada."
" Was her father an Englishman ?"
"I really don't know."
" Couldn't you find out?"
"No. You see he had but recently moved
to Montreal, like Willoughby ; and I could not
find any people who were acquainted with him."
"He may have been English all the time."
"Yes."
"And she too."
"By Jove!"
" And she may be in England now."
Hawbury started to his feet, and stared in
silence at his friend for several minutes.
"By Jove!" he cried; "if I thought that, 1
swear I'd start for home this evening, and hunt
about every where for the representatives of
the Orne family. But no — surely it can't be
possible."
" Were you in London last season ?"
"No."
" Well, how do you know but that she was
there?"
30
THE AMERICAN BARON.
"By Jove!"
"And the belle of the season, too?"
" She would be if she were there, by Jove !"
" Yes, if there wasn't another present that I
wot of."
" Well, we won't argue about that ; besides,
I haven't come to the point yet."
"The point?"
" Yes, the real reason why I'm here, when
I'm wanted home."
" The real reason ? Why, haven't you been
telling it to me all along ?"
"Well, no ; I haven't got to the point yet."
" Drive on, then, old man."
"Well, you know," continued Hawbury, "aft
er hunting all through Canada I gave up in de
spair, and concluded that Ethel was lost to me,
at least for the present. That was only about
six or seven months ago. So I went home, and
spent a month in a shooting-box on the High
lands ; then I went to Ireland to visit a friend ;
and then to London. While there I got a long
letter from my mother. The good soul was con
vinced that I was wasting my life ; she urged
me to settle down, and finally informed me that
she had selected a wife for me. Now I want
you to understand, old boy, that I fully appre
ciated my mother's motives. She was quite
right, I dare say, about my wasting my life ;
quite right, too, about the benefit of settling
down ; and she was also very kind to take all
the trouble of selecting a wife off my hands.
Under other circumstances I dare say I should
have thought the matter over, and perhaps I
should have been induced even to go so far as
to survey the lady from a distance, and argue
the point with my mother pro and con. But the
fact is, the thing was distasteful, and wouldn't
bear thinking about, much less arguing. I was
too lazy to go and explain the matter, and writ
ing was not my forte. Besides, I didn't want
to thwart my mother in her plans, or hurt her
feelings ; and so the long and the short of it is,
I solved the difficulty and cut the knot by cross
ing quietly over to Norway. I wrote a short
note to my mother, making no allusion to her
project, and since then I've been gradually work
ing my way down to the bottom of the map of
Europe, and here I am."
" You didn't see the lady, then ?"
"No."
"Who was she?"
"I don't know."
" Don't know the lady ?"
"No."
" Odd, too ! Haven't you any idea ? Surely
her name was mentioned ?"
" No ; my mother wrote in a roundabout style,
so as to feel her way. She knew me, and fear
ed that I might take a prejudice against the
lady. No doubt I should have done so. She
only alluded to her in a general way."
" A general way ?"
" Yes ; that is, you know, she mentioned the
fact that the lady was a niece of Sir Gilbert
Biggs."
" What !" cried Dacres, with a start.
"A niece of Sir Gilbert Biggs," repeated
Hawbury.
" A niece — of — Sir Gilbert Biggs ?" said Da
cres, slowly. " Good Lord !"
" Yes ; and what of that ?"
"Very much. Don't you know that Minnie
Fay is a niece of Sir Gilbert Biggs ?"
"By Jove! So she is. I remember being
startled when you told me that, and for a mo
ment an odd fancy came to me. I wondered
whether your child-angel might not be the
identical being about whom my poor dear mo
ther went into such raptures. Good Lord!
what a joke ! By Jove !"
" A joke !" growled Dacres. "I don't see any
joke in it. I remember when you said that
Biggs's nieces were at the bottom of your trou
bles, I asked whether it might be this one."
" So you did, old chap ; and I replied that I
hoped not. So you need not shake your gory
locks at me, my boy."
"But I don't like the looks of it."
"Neither do I."
"Yes, but you see it looks as though she had
been already set apart for you especially."
"And pray, old man, what difference can
that make, when I don't set myself apart for
any thing of the kind ?"
Dacres sat in silence with a gloomy frown
over his brow.
" Besides, are you aware, my boy, of the sol
emn fact that Biggs's nieces are legion ?" said
Hawbury. "The man himself is an infernal
old bloke ; and as to his nieces — heavens and
earth ! — old ! old as Methuselah ; and as to
this one, she must be a grandniece — a second
generation. She's not a true, full-blooded
niece. Now the lady I refer to was one of the
original Biggs's nieces. There's no mistake
whatever about that, for I have it in black and
white, under my mother's own hand."
"Oh, she would select the best of them for
you."
" No, she wouldn't. How do you know that ?"
"There's no doubt about that."
"It depends upon what you mean by the
best. The one you call the best might not
seem so to her, and so on. Now I dare say
she's picked out for me a great, raw-boned, red
headed niece, with a nose like a horse. And
she expects me to marry a woman like that !
with a pace like a horse ! Good Lord !"
And Hawbury leaned back, lost in the im
mensity of that one overwhelming idea.
"Besides," said he, standing up, "I don't
care if she was the angel Gabriel. I don't
want any of Biggs's nieces. I won't have them.
By Jove ! And am I to be entrapped into a
plan like that? I want Ethel. And what's
more, I will have her, or go without. The
child-angel may be the very identical one that
my mother selected, and if you assert that she
is, I'll be hanged if I'll argue the point. I only
say this, that it doesn't alter my position in the
slightest degree. I don't want her. I won't
THE AMERICAN BARON.
31
have her. I don't want to see her. I don't
care if the whole of Biggs's nieces, in solemn
conclave, with old Biggs at their head, had
formally discussed the whole matter, and final
ly resolved unanimously that she should be
mine. Good Lord, man ! don't you understand
how it is ? What the mischief do I care about
any body ? Do you think I went through that
fiery furnace for nothing ? And what do you
suppose that life on the island meant ? Is all
that nothing ? Did you ever live on an island
with the child-angel? Did you ever make a
raft for her and fly ? Did you ever float down
a river current between banks burned black by
raging fires, feeding her, soothing her, com
forting her, and all the while feeling in a gen
eral fever about her ? You hauled her out of
a crater, did you ? By Jove ! And what of
that ? Why, that furnace that I pulled Ethel
out of was worse than a hundred of your cra
ters. And yet, after all that, you think that I
could be swayed by the miserable schemes of a
lot of Biggs's nieces ! And you scowl at a fel
low, and get huffy and jealous. By Jove !"
After this speech, which was delivered with
unusual animation, Hawbury lighted a, cigar,
which he puffed at most energetically.
"All right, old boy," said Dacres. "A fel
low's apt to judge others by himself, you know.
Don't make any more set speeches, though. I
begin to understand your position. Besides,
after all — "
Dacres paused, and the dark frown that was
on his brow grew still darker.
"After all what?'' asked Hawbury, who now
began to perceive that another feeling besides
jealousy was the cause of his friend's gloomy
melancholy.
"Well, after all, you know, old fellow, I fear
I'll have to give her up."
"Give her up?"
"Yes."
" That's what you said .before, and you men
tioned Australia, and that rot."
"The more I think of it," said Dacres, dis
mally, and regarding the opposite wall with a
steady yet mournful stare — "the more I think
of it, the more I see that there's no such happi
ness in store for me. "
"Pooh, man ! what is it all about ? This is
the secret that you spoke about, I suppose ?"
"Yes; and it's enough to put a barrier be
tween me and her. Was I jealous? Did I
seem huffy ? What an idiot I must have been !
Why, old man, I can't do any thing or say any
thing."
"The man's mad," said Hawbury, address
ing himself to a carved tobacco-box on the table.
" Mad ? Yes, I was mad enough in ever
letting myself be overpowered by this bright
dream. Here have I been giving myself up to
a phantom — an empty illusion — and now it's all
over. My eyes are open."
" You may as well open my eyes too ; for I'll
be hanged if I can see my way through this !"
"Strange! strange! strange!" continued Da
cres, in a kind of soliloquy, not noticing Haw-
bury's words. " How a man will sometimes
forget realities, and give himself up to dreams !
It was my dream of the child-angel that so
turned my brain. I must see her no more."
" Very well, old boy," said Hawbury. "Now
speak Chinese a little for variety. I'll under
stand you quite as well. I will, by Jove !"
"And then, for a fellow that's had an expe
rience like mine — before and since," continued
Dacres, still speaking in the tone of one who
was meditating aloud — "to allow such an idea
even for a moment to take shape in his brain !
What an utter, unmitigated, unmanageable,
and unimprovable idiot, ass, dolt, and block
head ! Confound such a man ! I say ; confound
him!"
"CONFOUND BUOII A MAN! i SAY."
And as Dacres said this he brought his fist
down upon the table near him with such an
energetic crash that a wine-flask was sent spin
ning on the floor, where its ruby contents
splashed out in a pool, intermingled with frag
ments of glass.
Dacres was startled by the crash, and looked
at it for a while in silence. Then he raised his
head and looked at his friend. Hawbury en
countered his glance without any expression.
He merely sat and smoked and passed his fin
gers through his pendent whiskers.
"Excuse me," said Dacres, abruptly.
" Certainly, my dear boy, a thousand times ;
only I hope you will allow me to remark that
your style is altogether a new one, and during
the whole course of our acquaintance I do not
remember seeing it before. You have a mel
odramatic way that is overpowering. Still I
don't see why you should swear at yourself in
a place like Naples, where there are so many
other things to swear at. It's a waste of^m-
man energy, and I don't understand it. We
usedn't to indulge in soliloquies in South Amer
ica, used we ?"
" No, by Jove ! And look here, old chap,
THE AMERICAN BARON.
"HAW BURY SANK BACK IN HIS SEAT, OVEEWllELMKl)."
you'll overlook this little outburst, won't you ?
In South America I was always cool, and you
did the hard swearing, my boy. I'll be cool
again ; and what's more, I'll get back to South
America again as soon as I can. Once on the
pampas, and I'll be a man again. I tell you
what it is, I'll start to-morrow. What do you
say? Come."
" Oh no," said Hawbury, coolly ; " I can't
do that. I have business, you know."
"Business?"
" Oh yes, you know — Ethel, you know."
" By Jove ! so you have. That alters the
matter."
" But in any case I wouldn't go, nor would
you. I still am quite unable to understand
you. Why you should grow desperate, and
swear at yourself, and then propose South
America, is quite beyond me. Above all, I
don't yet see any reason why you should give
up your child-angel. You were all raptures
but a shorty time since. Why are you so cold
now ?"
" I'll tell you," said Dacres.
" So you said ever so long ago."
"It's a sore subject, and difficult to speak
about."
" Well, old man, I'm sorry for you ; and
don't speak about it at all if it gives you pain."
"|Oh, I'll make a clean breast of it. You've
told your affair, and I'll tell mine. I dare say
I'll feel all the better for it."
" Drive on, then, old man."
Dacres rose, took a couple of glasses of beer in
quick succession, then resumed his seat, then
picked out a cigar from the box with unusual fas
tidiousness, then drew a match, then lighted the
cigar, then sent out a dozen heavy volumes of
smoke, which encircled him so completely that
he became quite concealed from Hawbury's
view. But even this cloud did not seem suffi
cient to correspond with the gloom of his soul.
Other clouds rolled forth, and still others, until
all their congregated folds encircled him, and
in the midst there was a dim vision of a big
head, whose stin", high, curling, crisp hair, and
massive brow, and dense beard, seemed like
some living manifestation of cloud-compelling
Jove.
For some time there was silence, and Haw-
bury said nothing, but waited for his friend to
speak.
At last a voice was heard — deep, solemn,
awful, portentous, ominous, sorrow -laden,
weird, mysterious, prophetic, obscure, gloomy,
doleful, dismal, and apocalyptic.
" Hawbury !"
"Well, old man?"
"HAWBURY !"
"All right."
"Are you listening?''
" Certainly."
" Well — I'm — married!''
Hawbury sprang to his feet as though he had
been shot.
"What!" he cried.
" I'm married!"
"You're what? Married? You! married 1
Scone Dacres ! not you — not married?"
"/'/« married!"
THE AMERICAN BARON.
33
"Good Lord!"
"/'HI married!"
Hawbury sank back in his seat, overwhelmed
by the force of this sudden and tremendous rev
elation. For some time there was a deep si
lence. Both were smoking. The clouds roll
ed forth from the lips of each, and curled over
their heads, and twined in voluminous folds,
and gathered over them in dark, impenetrable
masses. Even so rested the clouds of doubt,
of darkness, and of gloom over the soul of
each, and those which were visible to the eye
seemed to typify, symbolize, characterize, and
body forth the darker clouds that overshadow
ed the mind.
"/'HI married!" repeated Dacres, who now
seemed to have become like Foe's raven, anil
all his words one melancholy burden bore.
"You were not married when I was last with
you?" said Hawbury at last, in the tone of one
who was recovering from a fainting fit.
"Yes, I was."
"Not in South America?"
" Yes, in South America."
"Married?"
"Yes, married."
"By Jove!"
"Yes; and what's more, I've been married
for ten years."
"Ten years ! Good Lord !"
" It's true."
" Why, how old could you have been when
you got married ?"
" A miserable, ignorant, inexperienced dolt,
idiot, and brat of a boy."
' ' By Jove ! "
" Well, the secret's out ; and now, if you
care to hear, I will tell you all about it."
"I'm dying to hear, dear boy; so go on."
And at this Scone Dacres began his story.
CHAPTER VIII.
A MAD WIFE.
"I'LL tell you all about it," said Scone Da
cres ; " but don't laugh, for matters like these
are not to be trifled with, and I may take of
fense."
" Oh, bother, as if I ever laugh at any thing
serious! By Jove! no. You don't know me,
old chap."
"All right, then. Well, to begin. This
wife that I speak of happened to me very sud
denly. I was only a boy, just out of Oxford,
and just into my fortune. I was on my way to
Paris — my first visit — and was full of no end of
projects for enjoyment. I went from Dover,
and in the steamer there was the most infer
nally pretty girl. Black, mischievous eyes, with
the devil's light in them ; hair curly, crispy,
frisky, luxuriant, all tossing over her head and
shoulders, and an awfully enticing manner. A
portly old bloke was with her — her father, I
afterward learned. Somehow my hat blew off.
She laughed. I laughed. Our eyes met. I
C
made a merry remark. She laughed again ;
and there we were, introduced. She gave me
a little felt hat of her own. I fastened it on
in triumph with a bit of string, and wore it all
the rest of the way.
"Well, you understand it all. Of course,
by the time we got to Calais, I was head over
heels in love, and so was she, for that matter.
The old man was a jolly old John Bull of a
man. I don't believe he had the slightest ap
proach to any designs on me. He didn't know
any thing about me, so how could he ? He
was jolly, and when we got to Calais he was
convivial. I attached myself to the two, and
had a glorious time. Before three days I had
exchanged vows of eternal fidelity with the
lady, and all that, and had gained her consent
to marry me on reaching England. As to the
old man there was no trouble at all. He made
no inquiries about my means, but wrung my
hand heartily, and said God bless me. Besides,
there were no friends of my own ta consider.
My parents were dead, and I had no relations
nearer than cousins, for whom I didn't care a
pin.
"•My wife lived at Exeter, and belonged to
rather common people ; but, of course, I didn't
care for that. Her own manners and style
were refined enough. She had been sent by
her father to a very fashionable boarding-school,
where- she had been run through the same
mould as that in which her superiors had been
formed, and so she might have passed muster
any where. Her father was awfully fond of
her, and proud of her. She tyrannized over
him completely. I soon found out that she had
been utterly spoiled by his excessive indulgence,
and that she was the most whimsical, nonsens
ical, headstrong, little spoiled beauty that ever
lived. But, of course, all that, instead of de
terring me, only increased the fascination which
she exercised, and made me more madly in love
than ever.
" Her name was not a particularly attractive
one; but what are names! It was Arethusa
Wiggins. Now the old man always called her
" Arry," which sounded like the vulgar pronun
ciation of " Harry." Of course I couldn't call
her that, and Arethusa was too infernally long,
for a fellow doesn't want to be all day in pro
nouncing his wife's name. Besides, it isn't a
bad name in itself, of course ; it's poetic, clas
sic, and does to name a ship of war, but isn't
quite the thing for one's home and hearth.
" After our marriage we spent the honey
moon in Switzerland, and then came home. I
had a very nice estate, and have it yet. You've
never heard of Dacres Grange, perhaps — well,
there's where we began life, and a devil of a
life she began to lead me. It was all very well
at first. During the honey-moon there were
only a few outbursts, and after we came to the
range she repressed herself for about a fort
night ; but finally she broke out in the most fu
rious fashion ; and I began to find that she had
a devil of a temper, and in her fits she was
THE AMERICAN BARON.
but a small remove from a mad woman. You
see she had been humored and indulged and
petted and coddled by her old fool of a father,
until at last she had grown to be the most
whimsical, conceited, tetchy, suspicious, impe
rious, domineering, selfish, cruel, hard-hearted,
and malignant young vixen that ever lived ;
yet this evil nature dwelt in a form as beautiful
as ever lived. She was a beautiful demon, and
I soon found it out.
" It began out of nothing at all. I had
been her adoring slave for three weeks, until I
began to be conscious of the most abominable
tyranny on her part. I began to resist this,
and we were on the verge of an outbreak when
we arrived at the Grange. The sight of, the
oW hall appeased her for a time, but finally the
novelty wore off, and her evil passions burst
out. Naturally enough, my first blind adora
tion passed away, and I began to take my proper
position toward her ; that is to say, I undertook
to give her somtj advice, which she very sorely
needed. This was the signal for a most furious
outbreak. What wa.s worse, her outbreak took
place before the servants. Of course I could
.do nothing under such circumstances, so I left
the room. When I saw her again she was sul
len and vicious. I attempted a reconciliation,
and kneeling down I passed my arms caressing
ly around her. ' Look here,' said I, ' my own
poor little darling, if I've done wrong, I'm sorry,
and — '
" Well, what do you think my.lady did ?"
"I don't know."
" She kicked nie ! that's all ; she kicked me,
just as I was apologizing to her — just, as I was
trying to make it up. She kicked me ! when
I had done nothing, and she alone had been to
blame. What's more, her boots were rather
heavy, and that kick made itself felt unmis
takably.
" I at once arose, and, le.ft, her without a
word. I did not speak to her then for some
time. I used to pass her in the house without
looking at her. This galled her terribly. She
made the house too hot for the servants, and I
used to hear her all day long scolding them in
a loud shrill voice, till the sound of that voice
became horrible to me.
" You must not suppose, however, that I be
came alienated all at once. That was impossi
ble. I loved her very dearly. After she had
kicked me away my love still lasted. It was a
galling thought to a man like me that she, a
common girl, the daughter of a. small trades
man, should have kicked me ; me, the descend
ant of Crusaders, by Jove ! and of the best blood
in England ; but after a while pride ga;ve way
to love, and I tried to open the way for a recon
ciliation once or twice. ; I attempted to address
her in her calmer moods, blip it was without any
success. She would not answer me at all. If
servants were in the room she would at once
proceed to give orders to them, just as though I
had not spoken. She showed a horrible malig
nancy in trying to dismiss the older servants.
whom she knew to be favorites of mine. Of
course I would not let her do it.
"Well, one day I found that this sort of life
was intolerable, and I made an effort to put an
end to it all. , My love was not all gone yet, and
I began to think that I had been to blame. She
had always been indulged, and I ought to have
kept up the system a little longer, and let her
down more gradually. I thought of her as I
first saw her in the glory of her youthful beauty
on the Calais boat, and softened my heart till I
began to long for a reconciliation. Really I
could not see where I had done any thing out of
the way. I was awfully fond of her at first, and
would have remained so if she had let me ; but,
you perceive, her style was not exactly the kind
which is best adapted to keep a man at a wo
man's feet. If she had shown the slightest
particle of tenderness, I would have gladly for
given her all — yes, even the kick, by Jove !
" We had been married about six months or
so, and had not spoken for over four months ;
so on the day I refer to I went to her room. She
received me with a sulky expression, and a hard
stare full of insult.
" ' My dear,' said I, ' I have come to talk
seriously with you.'
" ' Kate,' said she, ' show this gentleman out.'
" It was her maid to whom she spoke. The
maid colored. I turned to her and pointed to
the door, and she went out herself. My wife
stood trembling with rage — a beautiful fury.
"'I have determined,' said I, quietly, 'to
make one last effort for reconciliation, and I
want to be heard. Hear me now, dear, dear
wife. I want your love again ; I can not live
this way.. Can nothing be done ? Must I, must
you, always live this way ? Have I done any
wrong ? If I have, I repent. But come, let us
forget our quarrel ; let us remember the first
days of our acquaintance. We loved one an
other, darling. And bx»w beautiful you were !
You are still as beautiful ; won't you be as lov
ing ? Don't be hard on a fellow^ dear. If I've
done any wrong, tell me, and I'll make it right.
See, we are joined together for life. Can't we
make life sweeter for one another than it is now ?
Come, my wife, be mine again.'
"I went on in this strain for some time, and
my own words .actually softened me more as I
spoke. I felt sorry, too, for my wife, she seem
ed so wretched. Besides, it was a last chance,
and I determined to humble myself. Any thing
was better than perpetual hate and misery. So
at last I got so affected b,y my own eloquence
that I became quite spooney. Her back was
turned to me; I could not s.ee her face. I
thought by her silence that she was|affected, and,
in a gush of tenderness, I put rny arm around
her.
"In an instant she flung it off, and stepped
back, confronting me with a face as hard and an
eye as malevolent as a demon.
" She reached out her hand toward the bell.
" ' What are you going to do ?' I asked.
" 'Ring for my maid,' said she.
THE AMERICAN BARON.
"'Don't,' said I,
getting between her
and the bell. 'Think;
stop, I implore you.
This is our last chance
for a reconciliation.'
" She stepped back
with a cruel smile.
She had a small pen
knife in her hand.
Her eyes glittered
venomously.
"'Reconciliation,'
she said, with a sneer.
' / don't want it ; /
don't want you. You
came and forced your
self here. Ring for
my maid, and I will
let her show you the
door.'
. '" You can't mean
it ?' I said.
" 'I do mean it,'
she replied. ' Ring
the bell,' she added,
imperiously.
"I stood looking
at her.
"'Leave the room,
then,' she said.
, " ' I must have a
satisfactory answer,'
said I.
"'Very well,' said
she. ' Here it is.'
. "And saying this
she took the penknife
by the blade, between
her thumb and finger, '
and slung it at me.
It struck me on the arm, and buried itself deep
in the flesh till it touched the bone. I drew it
out, and without another word left the room.
As I went out I heard her summoning the maid
in a loud, stern voice.
"Well, after that I went to the Continent,
and spent about six months. Then I returned.
" On my return I found every thing changed.
She had sent off all the servants, and brought
there a lot of ruffians whom she was unable to
manage, and who threw every thing into confu
sion. All the gentry talked of her, and avoided
the place. My friends greeted me with strange,
pitying looks. She had cut down most of the
woods, and sold the timber ; she had sent off
a number of valuable pictures and sold them.
This was to get money, for I afterward found
out that avarice was one of her strongest
vices.
"The sight of all this filled me with indig
nation, and I at once turned out the whole lot
of servants, leaving only two or three maids, I
obtained some of the old servants, and rein
stated them. All this made my wife quite wild.
She came up to me once and began to storm,
VEKY WELL. IIEUE IT IS.
but I said something to her which shut her up
at once.
" One ,d.ay I came home and found her on
the portico, in her riding-habit. She was whip
ping :one of the maids with the butt end of her
riding-whip. I rushed up and released the poor
creature, whose cries were really heart-rending,
when my wife turned on me, like a fury, and
struck two blows over my head. One of the
scars is on my forehead still. See."
And Dacres put aside his hair on the top of
his head,, just over his right eye, and showed a
long red mark, which seemed like the scar of a
dangerous wound.
"It was an ugly blow," he continued. "I
at once tore the whip from her, and, grasping
her hand, led her into the drawing-room. There
I confronted her, holding her tight. I dare say
I was rather a queer sight, for the blood was
rushing down over my face, and dripping from
my beard.
" 'Look here, now,' I said; 'do you know
any reason why I shouldn't lay this whip over
your shoulders ? The English law allows it.
Don't you feel that you deserve it ?'
36
THE AMERICAN BARON.
" She shrank down, pale and trembling. She
was a coward, evidently, and accessible to phys
ical terror.
"'If I belonged to your class,' said I, 'I
would do it. But I am of a different order. I
am a gentleman. Go. After all, I'm not sorry
that yon gave me this blow.'
" I stalked out of the room, had a doctor, who
bound up the wound, and then meditated over
my situation. I made up my mind at once to
a separation. Thus far she had done nothing
to warrant a divorce, and separation was the
only thing. I was laid up and feverish for
about a month, but at the end of that time I
had an interview with my wife. I proposed a
separation, and suggested that she should go
home to her father. This she refused. She
declared herself quite willing to have a separa
tion, but insisted on living at Dacres Grange.
" ' And what am I to do ?' I asked.
" ' Whatever you please,' she replied, calmly.
" 'Do you really propose,' said I, 'to drive
me out of the home of my ancestors, and live
here yourself? Do you think I will allow this
place to be under your control after the fright
ful havoc that you have made ?'
" ' I shall remain here,' said she, firmly.
"I said nothing more. I saw that she was
immovable. At the same time I could not
consent. I could not live with her, and I could
not go away leaving her there. I could not
give up the ancestral home to her, to mar and
mangle and destroy. Well, I waited for about
two months, and then — "
"Well?" asked Hawbury, as Dacres hesitated.
" Dacres Grange was burned down," said
the other, in a low voice.
" Burned down!"
" Yes."
"Good Lord!"
"It caught fire in the daytime. There were
but few servants. No fire-engines were near,
for the Grange was in a remote place, and so
the fire soon gained headway and swept over
all. My wife was frantic. She came to me as
I stood looking at the spectacle, and charged
me with setting fire to it. I smiled at her, but
made no reply.
" So you see she was burned out, and that
question was settled. It was a terrible thing,
but desperate diseases require desperate reme
dies ; and I felt it more tolerable to have the
house in ruins than to have her living there
while I had to be a wanderer.
" She was now at my mercy. We went to
Exeter. She went to her father, and I finally-
succeeded in effecting an arrangement which
was satisfactory on all sides.
" First of all, the separation should be abso
lute, and neither of us should ever hold com
munication with the other in any shape or way.
"Secondly, she should take another name,
so as to conceal the fact that she was my wife,
and not do any further dishonor to the name.
"In return for this I was to give her out
right twenty thousand pounds as her own ab-
' solutely, to invest or spend just as she chose.
She insisted on this, so that she need not be de
pendent on any annual allowance. In consid
eration of this she forfeited every other claim,
all dower right in the event of my death, and
every thing else. This was all drawn up in a
formal document, and worded as carefully as
possible. I don't believe that the document
would be of much use in a court of law in case
she wished to claim any of her rights, but it
served to satisfy her, and she thought it was
legally sound and actually inviolable.
" Here we separated. I left England, and
have never been there since."
Dacres stopped, and sat silent for a long time.
" Could she have been mad ?" asked Hawbury.
"I used to think so, but I believe not. She
showed too much sense in every thing relating
to herself. She sold pictures and timber, and
kept every penny. She was acute enough in
grasping all she could. During our last inter
views while making these arrangements she
was perfectly cool and lady-like.
" Have you ever heard about her since?"
" Never."
" Is she alive yet ?"
"That's the bother."
" What ! don't you know ?"
"No."
" Haven't you ever tried to find out ?"
" Yes. Two years ago I went and had in
quiries made at Exeter. Nothing could be
found out. She and her father had left the
place immediately after my departure, and
nothing was known about them."
"I wonder that you didn't go yourself?"
"What for? I didn't care about seeing her
or finding her."
" Do you think she's alive yet ?"
"I'm afraid she is. You see she always had
excellent health, and there's no reason why she
should not live to be an octogenarian."
"Yet she may be dead."
" May be ! And what sort of comfort is that
to me in my present position, I should like to
know ? May be ? Is that a sufficient foun
dation for me to build on ? No. In a moment
of thoughtlessness I have allowed myself to for
get the horrible position in which I am. But
now I recall it. I'll crush down my feelings,
and be a man again. I'll see the child-angel
once more ; once more feast my soul over her
sweet and exquisite loveliness ; once more get
a glance from her tender, innocent, and guile
less eyes, and then away to South America."
" You said your wife took another name."
"Yes."
" What was it ? Do you know it ?"
"Oh yes ; it was WHloughby."
" Willouyhby /" cried Hawbury, with a start ;
" why, that's the name of my Ethel's friend,
at Montreal. Could it have been the same ?"
"Pooh, man! How is that possible ? Wil-
! loughby is not an uncommon name. It's not
j more likely that your Willoughby and mine are
i the same than it is that your Ethel is the one I
THE AMERICAN BARON.
37
met at Vesuvius. It's only a coincidence, and
not a very wonderful one, either."
"It seems con-foundedly odd, too," said
Hawbury, thoughtfully. "Willoughby? Ethel?
Good Lord! But pooh ! What rot? As though
they could he the same. Preposterous! By
Jove !"
And Hawbury stroked away the preposterous
idea through his long, pendent whiskers.
"SHE OAUGHT MINNIE IN HER AEMS."
CHAPTER IX.
NEW EMBARRASSMENTS.
MRS. WILLOUGHBT had been spending a
few days with a friend whom she had found in
Naples, and on her return was greatly shock
ed to hear of Minnie's adventure on Vesu
vius. Lady Dalrymple and Ethel had a story
to tell which needed no exaggerations and am
plifications to agitate her strongly. Minnie
was not present during the recital ; so, after
hearing it, Mrs. Willoughby went to her room.
Here she caught Minnie in her arms, and
kissed her in a very effusive manner.
" Oh, Minnie, my poor darling, what is all
this about Vesuvius? Is it true? It is ter
rible. And now I will never dare to leave you
again. How could I think that you would
be in any danger with Lady Dalrymple and
Ethel ? As to Ethel, I am astonished. She is
always so grave and so sad that she is the very
last person I would have supposed capable of
leading you into danger."
"Now, Kitty dearest, that's not true," said
Minnie; "she didn't lead me at all. I led
her. And how did I know there was any dan
ger? I remember now that dear, darling Ethel
said there was, and I didn't believe her. But
it's always the way." And Minnie threw her
little bead on one side, and gave a resigned sigh.
"And did you really get into the crater?"
asked Mrs. Willoughby, with a shudder.
"Oh, I suppose so. They all said so," said
Minnie, folding her little hands in front of her.
" I only remember some smoke, and then jolting
about dreadfully on the shoulder of some great
— big — awful — man."
" Oh dear!" sighed Mrs. Willoughby.
"What's the matter, Kitty dearest?"
"Another man !" groaned her sister.
"Well, and how could I help it?" said Min
nie. "I'm sure I didn't want him. I'm sure
I think he might have let me alone. I don't
see why they all act so. I wish they wouldn't
be all the time coming and saving my life. If
people will go and save my life, I can't help it.
I think it's very, very horrid of them."
" Oh dear! oh dear!" sighed her sister again.
"Now, Kitty, stop."
"Another man !" sighed Mrs. Willoughby.
"Now, Kitty, if you are so unkind, I'll cry.
You're always teasing me. You never do any
thing to comfort me. You know I want com
fort, and I'm not strong, and people all come
and save my life and worry me ; and I really
sometimes think I'd rather not live at all if my
life has to be saved so often. I'm sure / don't
know why they go and do it. I'm sure / never
heard of any person who is always going and
getting her life saved, and bothered, and pro
posed to, and written to, and chased, and fright
ened to death. And I've a great mind to go
and get married, just to stop it all. And I'd
just as soon marry this last man as not, and
make him drive all the others away from me.
He's big enough."
Minnie ended all this with a little sob ; and
her sister, as usual, did her best to soothe and
quiet her.
" Well, but, darling, how did it all happen ?"
"Oh, don't, don't."
" But you might tell me."
"Oh, I can't bear to think of it. It's too
horrible."
"Poor darling — the crater?"
"No, the great, big man. I didn't see any
crater."
" Weren't you in the crater ?"
"No, I wasn't."
"They said you were."
"I wasn't. I was on the back of a big,
horrid man, who gave great jumps down the
side of an awful mountain, all sand and things,
and threw me down at the bottom of it, and —
and — disarranged all my hair. And I was so
frightened that I couldn't even cur — cur — cry."
Here Minnie sobbed afresh, and Mrs. Wil
loughby petted her again.
"And you shouldn't tease me so; and it's
very unkind in you ; and you know I'm not
i well ; and I can't bear to think about it all ; and
! I know you're going to scold me ; and you're
always scolding me ; and you never do what I
' want you to. And then people are a/u-ays com-
. ing and saving my life, and I can't bear it any
; more."
" No-o-o-o-o-o, n-n-no-o-o-o, darling!" said
Mrs. Willoughby, soothingly, in the tone of a
nurse appeasing a fretful child. " You sha'n't
bear it anv more."
38
THE AMERICAN BARON.
"I don't want them to save me any more."
"Well, they sha'n't do it, then," said Mrs.
Willoughby, affectionately, in a somewhat maud
lin tone.
"And the next time I lose my life, I don't
want to be saved. I want them to let me alone,
and I'll come home myself."
" And so you shall, darling ; you shall do
just as you please. So, now, cheer up ; don't
cry;" and Mrs. Willoughby tried to wipe Min
nie's eyes.
"But you're treating me just like a baby,
and I don't want to be talked to so," said Min
nie, fretfully.
Mrs. Willoughby retreated with a look of
despair.
"Well, then, dear, I'll do just whatever you
want me to do."
" Well, then, I want you to tell me what I
am to do."
"About what?"
"Why, about this great, big, horrid man."
" I thought you didn't want me to talk about
this any more."
" But I do want you to talk about it. You're
the only person that I've got to talk to about it ;
nobody else knows how peculiarly I'm situated ;
and I didn't think that you'd give me up because
I had fresh troubles."
"Give you up, darling!" echoed her sister,
in surprise.
"You said you wouldn't talk about it any
more."
" But I thought you didn't want me to talk
about it."
"But I do want you to."
" Very well, then ; and now I want you first
of all, darling, to tell me how you happened to
get into such danger."
"Well, you know," began Minnie, who now
seemed calmer — "you know we all went out
for a drive. And we drove along for miles.
Such a drive ! There were lazaroni, and donk
eys, and caleches with as many as twenty in
each, all pulled by one poor horse, and it's a
great shame ; and pigs — oh, such pigs ! Not
a particle of hair on them, you know, and look
ing like young elephants, you know ; and we
saw great droves of oxen, and long lines of
booths, no end ; and people selling macaroni,
and other people eating it right in the open
street, you know — such fun! — and fishermen
and fish -wives. Oh, how they were screaming,
and oh, such a hubbub as there was ! and we
couldn't go on fast, and Dowdy seemed really
frightened."
" Dowdy ?" repeated Mrs. Willoughby, in an
interrogative tone.
"Oh, that's a name I've just invented for
Lady Dalrymple. It's better than Rymple.
She said so. It's Dowager shortened. She's
a dowager, you know. And so, you know, I
was on the front seat all the time, when all at
once I saw a gentleman on horseback. He
was a great big man — oh, so handsome ! — and
he was looking at poor little me as though he
would eat me up. And the moment I saw him
I was frightened out of my poor little wits, for
I knew he was coming to save my life."
"You poor little puss! what put such an
dea as that into your ridiculous little head ?"
"Oh, I knew it — second-sight, you know.
We've got Scotch blood, Kitty darling, you
know. So, you know, I sat, and I saw that be
was pretending not to see me, and not to be
following us ; but all the time he was taking
good care to keep behind us, when he could
easily have passed us, and all to get a good
look at poor me, you know.
"Well," continued Minnie, drawing a long
breath, "you know I was awfully frightened;
and so I sat looking at him, and I whispered
all the time to myself: 'Oh, please don't! —
ple-e-e-e-e-ease don't ! Don't come and save
my life ! Ple-e-e-e-e-ease let me alone ! I
don't want to be saved at all.' I said this, you
know, all to myself, and the more I said it the
more he seemed to fix his eyes on me."
"It was very, very rude in him, /think,"
said Mrs. Willoughby, with some indignation.
" No, it wasn't," said Minnie, sharply. " He
wasn't rude at all. He tried not to look at me.
He pretended to be looking at the sea, and at
the pigs, and all that sort of thing, you know ;
but all the time, you know, I knew very well
that he saw me out of the corner of his eye —
this way."
And Minnie half turned her head, and threw
upon her sister, out of the corner of her eyes, a
glance so languishing that the other laughed.
" He didn't look at you that way. I hope ?"
" There was nothing to laugh at in it at all,"
said Minnie. " He had an awfully solemn look
— it was so earnest, so sad, and so dreadful,
that I really began to feel quite frightened.
And so would you; wouldn't yon, now, Kitty
darling; now wouldn't you? Please say so."
"Oh yes!"
" Of course you would. Well, this person
followed us. I could see him very easily,
though he tried to avoid notice ; and so at last
we got to the Hermitage, and he came too.
Well, you know, I think I was very much ex
cited, and I asked Dowdy to let us go and see
the cone ; so she let us go. She gave no end
of warnings, and we promised to do all that
she said. So Ethel and I went out, and there
was the stranger. Well, I felt more excited
than ever, and a little bit frightened — just a
very, very, tiny, little bit, you know, and I
teased Ethel to go to the cone. Well, the
stranger kept in sight all the time, you know,
and I felt his eyes on me — I really felt them.
So, you know, when we got at the foot of the
cone, I was so excited that I was really quite
beside myself, and I teased and teased, till at
last Ethel consented to go up. So the men
took us up on chairs, and all the time the stran
ger was in sight. He walked up by himself
with great, big, long, strong strides. So we
went on till we got at the top, and then I was
1 wilder than ever. I didn't know that there
THE AMERICAN BARON.
39
was a particle of danger. I was dying with
curiosity to look down, and see where the
smoke came from. The stranger was standing
there too, and that's what made me so excited.
I wanted to show him — I don't know what. I
think my idea was to show him that I could
take care of myself. So then I teased and
teased, and Ethel begged and prayed, and she
cried, and I laughed ; and there stood the
stranger, seeing it all, until at last I started
oft', and ran up to the top, you know."
Mrs. Willoughby shuddered, and took her
sister's hand.
"There was no end of smoke, you know,
and it was awfully unpleasant, and I got to the
top I don't know how, when suddenly I fainted."
Minnie paused for a moment, and looked at
her sister with a rueful face.
"Well, now, dear, darling, the very — next —
thing — that I remember is this, and it's hor
rid : I felt awful jolts, and found myself in the
arms of a great, big, horrid man, who was run
ning down the side of the mountain with dread
fully long jumps, and I felt as though he was
some horrid ogre carrying poor me away to his
den to eat me up. But I didn't say one word.
I wasn't much frightened. I felt provoked. I
knew it was that horrid man. And then I
wondered what you'd say ; and I thought, oh,
how you would scold ! And then I knew that
this horrid man would chase me away from
Italy ; and then I would have to go to Turkey,
and have my life saved by a Mohammedan.
And that was horrid.
"Well, at last he stopped and laid me down.
He was very gentle, though he was so big. I
kept my eyes shut, and lay as still as a mouse,
hoping that Ethel would come. But Ethel
didn't. She was coming down with the chair,
you know, and her men couldn't run like mine.
And oh, Kitty darling, you have no idea what
I suffered. This horrid man was rubbing and
pounding at my hands, and sighing and groan
ing. I stole a little bit of a look at him — just
a little bit of a bit — and saw tears in his eyes,
and a wild look of fear in his face. Then I
knew that he was going to propose to me on
the spot, and kept my eyes shut tighter than
ever.
"Well, at last he hurt my hands so that I
thought I'd try to make him stop. So I spoke
as low as I could, and asked if I was home, and
he said yes."
. Minnie paused.
" Well ?" asked her sister.
"Well," said Minnie, in a doleful tone, "I
then asked, 'Is that you, papa dear?'"
Minnie stopped again.
" Well ?" asked Mrs. Willoughbv once more.
"Well—"
"Well, 'go on."
" Well, he said — he said, Yes, darling' —
and — "
. " And what ?"
" And he kissed me," said Minnie, in a dole
ful voice.
"Kissed you!" exclaimed her sister, with
flashing eyes.
"Ye-yes," stammered Minnie, with a sob;
" and I think it's a shame ; and none of them
ever did so before ; and I don't want you ever
to go away again, Kitty darling."
"The miserable wretch!" cried Mrs. Wil
loughby, indignantly.
"No, he isn't — he isn't that," said Minnie.
" He isn't a miserable wretch at all."
"How could any one he so hase who pre
tends to the name of gentleman!" cried Mrs.
Willoughby. .
" He wasn't base — and it's very wicked of
you, Kitty. He only pretended, you know."
"Pretended!"
"Yes."
" Pretended what ?"
"Why, that he was my — my father, you
know."
"Does Ethel know this?" asked Mrs. Wil
loughby, after a curious look at Minnie.
" No, of course not, nor Dowdy either ; and
you mustn't go and make any disturbance."
"Disturbance? no; but if I ever see him,
I'll let him know what I think of him," said
Mrs. Willoughby, severely.
" But he saved my life, and so you know you
can't be very harsh with him. Please don't —
ple-e-e-ease now, Kitty darling."
"Oh, you little goose, what whimsical idea
have you got now ?"
"Please don't, ple-e-e-ease don't," repeated
Minnie.
" Oh, never mind ; go on now, darling, and
tell me about the rest of it."
" Well, there isn't any more. I lay still, you
know, and at last Ethel came ; and then we
went back to Dowdy, and then we came home,
you know."
" Well, I hope you've lost him."
"Lost him? Oh no; I never do. They al
ways z<n7/come. Besides, this one will, I know."
"Why?"
"Because he said so."
"Said so? when?"
"Yesterday."
"Yesterday?"
"Yes; we met him."
"Who?"
"Dowdy and I. We were out driving. We
stopped and spoke to him. He was dreadfully
earnest and awfully embarrassed ; and I knew
he was going to propose ; so I kept whispering to
myself all the time, 'Oh, please don't — please
don't;' hut I know he will; and he'll be here
soon too."
"He sha'n't. I won't let him. I'll never
give him the chance."
"I think you needn't be so cruel."
"Cruel!"
"Yes ; to the poor man."
" Why, you don't want another man, I hope?"
"N-no; but then I don't want to hurt his
feelings. It was awfully good of him, you
know, and awfully plucky."
40
THE AMERICAN BARON.
''IF I EVEK SEE HIM, l'j.1. LET HIM KNOW WHAT I THINK OF HIM.'
" Well, I should think that yon would pre
fer avoiding him, in your peculiar situation."
"Yes, but he may feel hurt.'?
" Oh, he may see you once or twice with
me."
"But he may want to see me alone, and
what can I do ?"
"Really now, Minnie, you must rememher
that you are in a serious position. There is
that wretched Captain Kirby."
" I know," said Minnie, with a sigh.
"And that dreadful American. By-the-way,
darling, you have never told me his name. It
isn't of any consequence, but I should like to
know the American's name."
"It's— Rufus K. Gunn."
" Rufus K. Gunn ; what a funny name ! and
what in the world is ' K' for?"
"Oh, nothing. He says it is the fashion in
his country to have some letter of the alphabet
between one's names, and he chose 'K,' be
cause it was so awfully uncommon. Isn't it
funny, Kitty darling?"
"Oh dear!" sighed her sister; "and then
there is that pertinacious Count Girasole. Think
what trouble we had in getting quietly rid of
him. I'm afraid all the time that he will not
stay at Florence, as he said, for he seems to
have no fixed abode. First he was going to
Rome, and then Venice, and at last he com
mitted himself to a statement that he had to
remain at Florence, and so enabled us to get-
rid of him. But I know he'll come upon us
again somewhere, and then we'll have all the
trouble over again. Oh dear! Well, Minnie
darling, do you know the name of this last
one?"
"Oh yes."
"What is it?"
" It's a funny name," said Minnie ; " a very
funny name."
" Tell it to me."
"It's Scone Dacres; and isn't that a funny
name?"
Mrs. Willoughby started at the mention of
that name. Then she turned away her head,
and did not say a word for a long time.
"Kitty!"
No answer.
"Kitty darling, what's the matter?"
Mrs. Willoughby turned her head once more.
Her face was quite calm, and her voice had its
usual tone, as she asked,
"Say that name again."
" Scone Dacres," said Minnie.
"Scone Dacres!" repeated Mrs. Willough
by; " and what sort of a man is he?"
"Big — very big — awfully big!" said Min
nie. "Great, big head and broad shoulders.
Great, big arms,, that carried me as if I were a
feather; big beard too; and it tickled me so
when he — he pretended that he was my father ;
and very sad. And, oh ! I know I should be so
rwfiilly fond of him. And, oh ! Kitty darling,
what do you think ?"
"What, dearest?"
"Why, I'm — I'm afraid — I'm really begin
ning to — to — like him — just a little tiny bit,
you know."
"iScoue Dacrewl" repeated Mrs. Willough-
THE AMERICAN BARON.
41
by, who didn't seem to have heard this last ef
fusion. " Scone Dacres ! Well, darling, don't
trouble yourself; he sha'n't trouble you."
"But I want him to," said Minnie.
"Oh, nonsense, child!"
" 1IALLO, OLD MAN, WHAT'S UP NOW ?"
CHAPTER X.
A FEARFUL DISCOVERT.
A FEW clays after this Hawbury was in his
room, when Dacres entered.
' ' Hallo, old man, what's up now ? How goes
the war?" said Hawbury. " But what the mis
chief's the matter ? You look cut up. Your
brow is sad ; your eyes beneath flash like a fal
chion from its sheath. What's happened ? You
look half snubbed, and half desperate."
Dacres said not a word, but flung himself
into a chair with a look that suited Hawbury's
description of him quite accurately. His brows
lowered into a heavy frown, his lips were com
pressed, and his breath came quick and hard
through his inflated nostrils. He sat thus for
some time without taking any notice whatever
of his friend, and at length lighted a cigar,
which he smoked, as he often did when ex
cited, in great voluminous puffs. Hawbury
said nothing, but after one or two" quick glances
at his friend, rang a bell and ordered some
"Bass."
" Here, old fellow," said he, drawing the at
tention of Dacres to the refreshing draught.
"Take some — 'Quaff, oh, quaff this kind ne
penthe, and forget thy lost Lenore.' "
Dacres at this gave a heavy sigh that sound
ed like a groan, and swallowed several tumblers
in quick succession.
"Hawbury!" said he at length, in a half-
stifled voice.
" Well, old man ?"
"I've had a blow to-day full on the breast
that fairly staggered me."
"By Jove!"
" Fact. . I've just come from a mad ride
along the shore. I've been mad, I think, for
two or three hours. Of all the monstrous,
abominable, infernal, and unheard-of catastro
phes this is the worst."
He stopped, and puffed away desperately at
his cigar.
"Don't keep a fellow in suspense this way,"
said Hawbury at last. " What's up ? Out
with it, man."
" Well, you know, yesterday I called there."
Hawbury nodded.
" She was not at home."
"So you said."
" You know she really wasn't, for I told you
that I met their carriage. The whole party
were in it, and on the front seat beside Minnie
there was another lady. This is the one that
I had not seen before. She makes the fourth
in that party. She and Minnie had their backs
turned as they came up. The other ladies
bowed as they passed, and as I held off my hat
I half turned to catch Minnie's eyes, when I
caught sight of the face of the lady. It startled
me so much that I was thunder-struck, and
stood there with my hat off after they had
passed me for some time."
" You said nothing about that, old chap.
Who the deuce could she have been ?"
"No, I said nothing about it. As I cantered
off I began to think that it was only a fancy of
mine, and finally I was sure of it, and laughed
it off. For, you must know, the lady's face
looked astonishingly like a certain face that I
don't particularly care to see — certainly not in
such close connection with Minnie. But, yon
see, I thought it might have been my fancy, so
that I finally shook off the feeling, and said no
thing to you about it."
Dacres paused here, rubbed his hand violent
ly over his hair at the place where the scar was,
and then, frowning heavily, resumed :
"Well, this afternoon I called again. They
were at home. On entering I found three la
dies there. One was Lady Dalrymple, and the
others were Minnie and her friend Ethel — either
her friend or her sister. I think she's her sis
ter. Well, I sat for about five minutes, and
was just beginning to feel the full sense of my
happiness, when the door opened and another
lady entered. Hawbury" — and Dacres's tones
deepened into an awful solemnity — " Hawbury,
it was the lady that I saw in the carriage yes
terday. One look at her was enough. I was
assured then that my impressions yesterday
were not dreams, but the damnable and abhor
rent truth!"
"What impressions — you haven't told me yet,
you know ?"
" Wait a minute. I rose as she entered, and
42
THE AMERICAN BARON.
" I STOOD TRANSFIXED.
confronted her. She looked at me calmly, and
then stood as though expecting to be intro
duced. There was no emotion visible what
ever. She was prepared for it : I was not :
and so she was as cool as when I saw her last,
and, what is more, just as young and beautiful."
"The devil!" cried Hawbury.
Dacres poured out another glass of ale and
drank it. His hand trembled slightly as he put
down^ the glass, and he sat for some time in
thought before he went on.
"Well, Lady Dairy mple introduced us. It
was Mrs. Willoughby !"
"By Jove!" cried Hawbury. "I saw you
were coming to that."
" Well, you know, the whole thing was so
sudden, so unexpected, and so perfectly over
whelming, that I stood transfixed. I said no
thing. I believe I bowed, and then somehow
or other, I really don't know how, I got away,
and, mounting my horse, rode off like a mad
man. Then I came home, and here you see
me."
There was a silence now for some time.
"Are you sure that it was your wife?"
"Of course I am. How could I be mis
taken ?"
"Are you sure the name was Willoughby?"
" Perfectly sure."
"And that is the name your wife took ?"
" Yes ; I told you so before, didn't I ?"
" Yes. But think now. Mightn't there be
some mistake ?"
"Pooh ! how could there be any mistake?''
" Didn't you see any change in her ?"
"No, only that she looked much more quiet
than she used to. Not so active, you know.
In her best days she was always excitable, and
a little demonstrative ; but now she seems to
have sobered down, and is as quiet and well-
bred as any of the others."
"Was there not any change in her at all?"
"Not so much as I would have supposed;
certainly not so much as there is in me. But
then I've been knocking about all over the
world, and she's been'living a life of pence and
culm, with the sweet consciousness of having
triumphed over a hated husband, and possess
ing a handsome competency. Now she min
gles in the best society. She associates with-
THE AMERICAN BARON.
43
lords and ladies. She enjoys life in England,
while I am an exile. No doubt she passes for
a fine young widow. No doubt, too, she has
lots of admirers. They aspire to her hand.
They write poetry to her. They make love to
her. Confound her!"
Dacres's voice grew more and more agitated
and excited as he spoke, and at length his ti
rade against his wife ended in something that
was almost a roar..
Hawbury said nothing, but listened, with his
face full of sympathy. At last his pent-up
feeling found expression in his favorite excla
mation, "By Jove!"
" Wouldn't I be justified in wringing her
neck ?" asked Dacres, after a pause. " And
what's worse," he continued, without waiting
for an answer to his question — " what's worse,
her presence here in this unexpected way has
given me, me, mind you, a sense of guilt, while
she is, of course, immaculate. /, mind you —
/, the injured husband, with the scar on my
head from a wound made by her hand, and
all the ghosts of my ancestors howling curses
over me at night for my desolated and ruined
home — / am to be conscience-stricken in her
presence, as if I were a felon, while she, the re
ally guilty one — the blight and bitter destruction
of my life — she is to appear before me now as
injured, and must make her appearance here,
standing by the side of that sweet child-angel,
and warning me away. Confound it all, man !
Do you mean to say that such a thing is to be
borne?"
Dacres was now quite frantic ; so Hawbury,
with a sigh of perplexity, lighted a fresh cigar,
and thus took refuge from the helplessness of
his position. It was clearly a state of things
in which advice was utterly useless, and conso
lation impossible. What could he advise, or
what consolation could he offer ? The child-
angel was now out of his friend's reach, and the
worst fears of the lover were more than real
ized.
" I told you I was afraid of this," continued
Dacres. " I had a suspicion that she was alive,
and I firmly believe she'll outlive me forty
years ; but I must say I never expected to see
her in this way, under -such circumstances.
And then to find her so infernally beautiful !
Confound her ! she don't look over twenty-five.
How the mischief does she manage it ? Oh,
she's a deep one! But perhaps she's changed.
She seems so calm, and came into the room so
gently, and looked at me so steadily. Not a
tremor, not a shake, as I live. Calm, Sir ;
cool as steel, and hard too. She looked away,
and then looked back. They were searching
glances, too, as though they read me through
and through. Well, there was no occasion for
that. She ought to know Scone Dacres well
enough, I swear. Cool ! And there stood I,
with the blood flashing to my head, and throb
bing fire underneath the scar of her wound —
hers — her own property, for she made it !
That was the woman that kicked me, that
struck at me, that caused the destruction of my
ancestral house, that drove me to exile, and'
that now drives me back from my love. But,
by Heaven ! it '11 take more than her to do it ;
and I'll show her again, as I showed her once
before, that Scone Dacres is her master. And,
by Jove ! she'll find that it '11 take more than
herself to keep me away from Minnie Fay."
"See here, old boy," said Hawbury, "you
may as well throw up the sponge."
"I won't," said Dacres, gruffly.
" You see it isn't your wife that you have to
consider, but the girl ; and do you think the
girl or her friends would have a married man
paying his attentions in that quarter? Would
you have the face to do it under your own wife's'
eye? By Jove!"
The undeniable truth of this assertion was
felt by Dacres even in his rage. But the very
fact that it was unanswerable, and that he was
helpless, only served to deepen and intensify
his rage. Yet he said nothing; it was only in
his face and manner that his rage was mani
fested. He appeared almost to suffocate un
der the rush of fierce, contending passions ; big
distended veins swelled out in his forehead,
whicli was also drawn far down in a gloomy
frown ; his breath came thick and fast, and his
hands were clenched tight together. Hawbury
watched him in silence as before, feeling all
the time the impossibility of saying any thing
that could be of any use whatever.
" Well, old fellow," said Dacres at last, giv
ing a long breath, in which he seemed to throw
off some of his excitement, "you're right, of
course, and I am helpless. There's no chance'
for me. Paying attentions is out of the ques
tion, and the only thing for me to do is to give
up the whole thing. But that isn't to be done:
at once. It's been long since I've seen any
one for whom I felt any tenderness, and this
little thing, I know, is fond of me. I can't
quit her at once. I must stay on for a time,
at least, and have occasional glimpses at her.
It gives me a fresh sense of almost heavenly
sweetness to look at her fair young face. Be
sides, I feel that I am far more to her than any
other man. No other man has stood to her in
the relation in which I have stood. Recollect
how I saved her from death. That is no light
thing. She must feel toward me as she has
never felt to any other. She is not one who
can forget how I snatched her from a fearful
death, and brought her back to life. Every
time she looks at me she seems to convey all'
that to me in her glance."
"Oh, well, my dear fellow, really now," said
Hawbury, "just think. You can't do any
thing."
"But. I don't want to do any thing."
" It never can end in any thing, you know."
"But I don't want it to end in any thing."
"You'll only bother her by entangling her
affections."
''But I don't want to entangle her affec
tions. "
THE AMERICAN BARON.
"Then what the mischief do yon want to
do?"
"Why, very little. I'll start off soon for the
uttermost ends of the earth, but I wish to stay
a little longer and see her sweet face. It's not
much, is it ? It won't compromise her, will
it? She need not run any risk, need she ?
And I'm a man of honor, am I not ? You
don't suppose me to be capable of any base
ness, do you?"
"My dear fellow, how absurd! Of course
not Only I was afraid by giving way to this
you might drift on into a worse state of mind.
She's all safe, I fancy, surrounded as she is by
so many guardians. It is you that I'm anxious
about."
" Don't be alarmed, old chap, about me.
I feel calmer already. I can face my situation
firmly, and prepare for the worst. While I
have been sitting here I have thought out the
future. I will stay here four or five weeks. I
will only seek solace for myself by riding about
where I may meet her. I do not intend to go
to the house at all. My demon of a wife may
have the whole house to herself. I won't even
give her the pleasure of supposing that she has
thwarted me. She shall never even suspect
the state of my heart. That would be bliss
indeed to one like her, for then she would find
herself able to put me on the rack. No, my
boy ; I've thought it all over. Scone Dacres
is himself again. No more nonsense now. Do
you understand now what I mean ?"
"Yes," said Hawbury, slowly, and in his
worst drawl; "but ah, really, don't you think
it's nil nonsense ?"
"What?"
" Why, this ducking and diving about to get
a glimpse of her face."
" 1 don't intend to duck and dive about. I
merely intend to ride like any other gentle
man. What put that into your head, man ?"
"Well, I don't know; I gathered it from
the way you expressed yourself."
"Well, I don't intend any thing of the kind.
I simply wish to have occasional looks at her
— to get a bow and a smile of recognition
when I meet her, and have a few addition
al recollections to turn over in my thoughts
after I have left her forever. Perhaps this
seems odd."
" Oh no, it doesn't. I quite understand it.
A passing smile or a parting sigh is sometimes
more precious than any other memory. I know
all about it, you know — looks, glances, smiles,
sighs, and all that sort of thing, you know."
"Well, now, old chap, there's one thing I
want you to do for me."
" Well, what is it ?"
" It isn't much, old fellow. It isn't much,
i I simply wish yon to visit there."
" Me ? — visit there f What ! me — and visit ?
Why, my dear fellow, don't you know how I
hate such bother ?"
" I know all about that ; but, old boy, it's
only for a few weeks I ask it, and for my
sake, as a particular favor. I put it in that
light."
" Oh, well, really, dear boy, if you put it in
that light, you know, of course, that I'll do any
thing, even if it comes to letting myself be
bored to death."
" Just a visit a day or so."
" A visit a day !" Hawbury looked aghast.
" It isn't much to ask, you know," continued
Dacres. "You see my reasop is this: I can't
go there myself, as you see, but I hunger to
hear about her. I should like to hear how she
looks, and what she says, and whether she
thinks of me."
" Oh, come now ! look here, my dear fel
low, you're putting it a little too strong. You
don't expect me to go there and talk to her
about you, you know. Why, man alive, that's
quite out of my way. I'm not much of a talk
er at any time ; and besides, you know, there's
something distasteful in acting as — as — Bv
Jove ! I don't know what to call it."
" My dear boy, you don't understand me.
Do you think I'm a sneak? Do you suppose
I'd ask you to act as a go-between ? Nonsense !
I merely ask you to go as a cursory visitor. I
don't want you to breathe my name, or even
think of me while you are there."
" But suppose I make myself too agreeable
to the young lady. By Jove! she might think
I was paying her attentions, you know."
" Oh no, no ! believe me, you don't know
her. She's too earnest ; she has too much soul
to shift and change. Oh no ! I feel that she
is mine, and that the image of my own misera
ble self is indelibly impressed upon her heart.
Oh no ! you don't know her. If you had heard
her thrilling expressions of gratitude, if you had
seen the beseeching and pleading looks which
she gave me, you would know that she is one
of those natures who love once, and once only."
" Oh, by Jove, now ! Come ! If that's the
state of the case, why, I'll go."
"Thanks, old boy."
" As a simple visitor."
"Yes — that's all."
" To talk about the weather, and that rot."
" Yes."
"And no more."
"No."
" Not a word about you."
"Not a word."
"No leading questions, and that sort of
thing."
" Nothing of the kind."
" No hints, no watching, but just as if I went
there of my own accord."
" That's exactly the thing."
" Very well ; and now, pray, what good is all
this going to do to yon, my boy ?"
" Well, just this ; I can talk to you about her
every evening, and yon can tell me how she
looks, and what she says, and all that sort of
thing, you know."
"By Jove!"
" And you'll cheer my heart, olJ fellow.'1
THE AMERICAN BARON.
45
" Heavens and earth ! old boy, you don't
seem to think that this is going to be no end of
a bore."
" I know it, old man ; but then, you know,
I'm desperate just now."
"By Jove!"
And Hawbury, uttering this exclamation, re
lapsed into silence, and wondered over his
friend's infatuation.
On the following day when Dacres came in
he found that Hawbury had kept his word.
" Great bore, old fellow," said he ; " but I
did it. The old lady is an old acquaintance,
you know. I'm going there to-morrow again.
Didn't see any thing to-day of the child-angel.
But it's no end of a bore, you know."
"IT'S HE!' 8HK MUKMURED."
CHAPTER XI.
FALSE AND FORGETFUL.
THE day when Lord Hawbury called on
Lady Dalrymple was a very eventful one in his
life, and had it not been for a slight peculiarity
of his, the immediate result of that visit would
have been of a highly important character. This
slight peculiarity consisted in the fact that he
was short-sighted, and, therefore, on a very crit
ical occasion turned away from that which would
have been his greatest joy, although it was full
before his gaze.
It happened in this wise :
On the day when Hawbury called, Ethel hap
pened to be sitting by the window, and saw
him as he rode up. Now the last time that
she had seen him he had a very different ap
pearance — all his hair being burned off, from
head and cheeks and chin ; and the whiskers
which he had when she first met him had been
of a different cut from the present appendages.
In spite of this she recognized him almost in
a moment ; and her heart beat fast, and her
color came and went, and her hands clutched
the window ledge convulsively.
"It's he!" she murmured.
Of course there was only one idea in her
mind, and that was that he had heard of her
presence in Naples, and had come to call on
her.
She sat there without motion, with her head
eagerly bent forward, and her eyes fixed upon
him. He looked up carelessly as he came
along, and with his chin in the air, in a fashion
peculiar to him, which, by-the-way, gave a quite
unintentional superciliousness to his expression.
For an instant his eyes rested upon her, then
they moved away, without the slightest recog
nition, and wandered elsewhere.
Ethel's heart seemed turned to stone. He
had seen her. He had not noticed her. He
had fixed his eyes on her and then looked away.
Bitter, indeed, was all this to her. To think
that after so long a period of waiting — after
such hope and watching as hers had been —
that this should be the end. She turned away
from the window, with a choking sensation in
her throat. No one was in the room. She
was alone with her thoughts and her tears.
Suddenly her mood changed. A thought
came to her which dispelled her gloom. The
glance that he had given was too hasty ; per
haps he really had not fairly looked at her.
No doubt he had come for her, and she would
shortly be summoned down.
And now this prospect brought new hope.
Light returned to her eyes, and joy to her
heart. Yes, she would be summoned. She
must prepare herself to encounter his eager
gaze. Quickly she stepped to the mirror, hast
ily she arranged those little details in which
consists the charm of a lady's dress, and se
verely she scrutinized the face and figure re
flected there. The scrutiny was a satisfactory
one. Face and figure were pei'fect ; nor was
there in the world any thing more graceful and
more lovely than the image there, though the
one who looked upon it was far too self-dis
trustful to entertain any such idea as that.
Then she seated herself and waited. The
time moved slowly, indeed, as she waited there.
After a few minutes she found it impossible to
sit any longer. She walked to the door, held
it open, and listened. She heard his voice be
low quite plainly. They had two suits of
rooms in the house — the bedrooms up stairs
and reception-roorns below. Here Lord Haw
bury was, now, within hearing of Ethel. Well
she knew thnt voice. She listened and frowned.
The tone was. too flippant. He talked like a
man without a care — like a butterfly of society
.46
THE AMERICAN BARON.
— and that was a class which she scorned.
Here he was, keeping her waiting. Here he
was, keeping up a hateful clatter of small-talk,
while her heart was aching with suspense.
Ethel stood there listening. Minute succeed
ed to minute. There was no request for her.
How strong was the contrast between the cool
indifference of the man below, and the fever
ish impatience of that listener above ! A wild
impulse came to her to go down, under the pre
tense of looking for something; then another
to go down and out for a walk, so that he might
see her. But in either case pride held her back.
How could she ? Had he not already seen her ?
Must he not know perfectly well that she was
there ? No ; if he did not call for her she could
not go. She could not make advances.
Minute succeeded to minute, and Ethel stood
burning with impatience, racked with suspense,
a prey to the bitterest feelings. Still no mes
sage. Why did he delay? Her heart ached
now worse than ever, the choking feeling in
her throat returned, and her eyes grew moist.
She steadied herself by holding to the door.
Her fingers grew white at the tightness of her
grasp ; eyes and ears were strained in their in
tent watchfulness over the room below.
Of course the caller below was in a perfect
state of ignorance about all this. He had not
the remotest idea of that one who now stood
so near. He came as a martyr. He came to
make a call. It was a thing he detested. It
bored him. To a man like him the one thing
to be avoided on earth was a bore. To be
bored was to his mind the uttermost depth of
misfortune. This he had voluntarily accepted.
He was being bored, and bored to death.
Certainly no man ever accepted a calamity
more gracefully than Hawbury. He was charm
ing, affable, easy, chatty. Of course he was
known to Lady Dalrymple. The Dowager could
make herself as agreeable as any lady living, ex
cept young and beautiful ones. The conversa
tion, therefore, was easy and flowing. Haw-
bury excelled in this.
Now there are several variations in the great
art of expression, and each of these is a minor
art by itself. Among these may be enumerated :
First, of course, the art of novel-writing.
Second, the art of writing editorials.
Third, the art of writing paragraphs.
After these come all the arts of oratory, let
ter-writing, essay -writing, and all that sort of
thing, among which there is one to which I wish
particularly to call attention, and this is :
The art of small-talk.
Now this art Hawbury had to an extraor
dinary degree of perfection. He knew how to
beat out the faintest shred of an idea into an
illimitable surface of small -talk. He never
took refuge in the weather. He left that to
bunglers and beginners. His resources were of
a different character, and were so skillfully man
aged that he never failed to leave a very agree
able impression. Small-talk ! Why, I've been
in situations sometimes where I would have giv
en the power of writing like Dickens (if I had
it) for perfection in this last art.
But this careless, easy, limpid, smooth, nat
ural, pleasant, and agreeable flow of chat was
nothing but gall and wormwood to the listener
above. She ought to be there. Why was she
so slighted ? Could it be possible that he would
go away without seeing her ?
She was soon to know.
She heard him rise. She heard him saunter
to the door.
"Thanks, yes. Ha, ha, you're too kind —
really — yes — very happy, you knonr. To-mor
row, is it? Good-morning."
And with these words he went out.
With pale face and staring eyes Ethel darted
back to the window. He did not see her. His
back was turned. He mounted his horse and
gayly cantered away. For full five minutes
Ethel stood, crouched in the shadow of the
window, staring after him, with her dark eyes
burning and glowing in the intensity of their
gaze. Then she turned away with a bewildered
look. Then she locked the door. Then she
flung herself upon the sofa, buried her head in
her hands, and burst into a convulsive passion
of tears. Miserable, indeed, were the thoughts
that came now to that poor stricken girl as she
lay there prostrate. She had waited long, and
hoped fondly, and all her waiting and all her
hope had been for this. It was for this that she
had been praying — for this that she had so fond
ly cherished his memory. He had come at last,
and he had gone; but for her he had certainly
shown nothing save an indifference as profound
as it was inexplicable.
Ethel's excuse for not appearing at the dinner-
table was a severe headache. Her friends in
sisted on seeing her and ministering to her suf
ferings. Among other things, they tried to cheer
her by telling her of Hawbury. Lady Dalrym
ple was full of him. She told all about his fam
ily, his income, his habits, and his mode of life.
She mentioned, with much satisfaction, that he
had made inquiries after Minnie, and that she
had promised to introduce him to her the next
time he called. Upon which he had laughing
ly insisted on calling the next day. All of
which led Lady Dalrymple to conclude that he
had seen Minnie somewhere, and had fallen in
love with her.
This was the pleasing strain of conversation
into which the ladies were led off by Lady Dal
rymple. When I say the ladies, I mean Lady
Dalrymple and Minnie. Mrs. Willoughby said
nothing, except once or twice when she en
deavored to give a turn to the conversation, in
which she was signally unsuccessful. Lady Dal
rymple and Minnie engaged in an animated ar
gument over the interesting subject of Haw-
bury's intentions, Minnie taking her stand on
the ground of his indifference, the other main
taining the position that he was in love. Minnie
declared thatshe had never seen him. Lady Dal
rymple asserted her belief that he had seen her.
The latter also asserted that Hawburv would no
THE AMERICAN BARON.
47
doubt be a constant
visitor, and gave Min
nie very sound advice
as to the best mode of
treating him.
On the following
day Hawbury called,
and was introduced to
Minnie. He chatted
with her in his usual
style, and Lady Dai
ry mple was more than
ever confirmed in her
first belief. He sug
gested a ride, and the
suggestion was taken
up.
If any thing had
been needed to com
plete Ethel's despair
it was this second visit
and the project of a
ride. Mrs. Willough-
by was introduced to
him ; but he took lit
tle notice of her, treat
ing her with a kind of
reserve that was a lit
tle unusual with him.
The reason of this was
his strong sympathy
with his friend, and
his detestation of Mrs.
Willoughby's former
history. Mrs. Wil-
loughby, however,
had to ride with
them when they went
.out, and thus she was
thrown a little more
into Hawbury's way.
Ethel never made her appearance. The
headaches which she avouched were not pre
tended. They were real, and accompanied
with heartaches that were far more painful.
JIawbury never saw her, nor did he ever hear
her mentioned. In general he himself kept the
conversation in motion ; and as he never asked
questions, they, of course, had no opportunity
to answer. On the other hand, there was no
occasion to volunteer any remarks about the
number or the character of their party. When
he talked it was usually with Lady Dalrymple
and Minnie; and with these the conversation
turned always upon glittering. generalities, and
the airy nothings of pleasant gossip. All this,
then, will very easily account for the fact that
Hawbury, though visiting there constantly, nev
er once saw Ethel, never heard her name men
tioned, and had not the faintest idea that she
was so near. She, on the other hand, feeling
now sure that he was utterly false and complete
ly forgetful, proudly and calmly held aloof, and
kept out of his way with the most jealous care,
until at last she staid indoors altogether, for fear,
if she went out, that she might meet him some-
"TIIEN SUB FLUNG HERSELF UPON TUB BOFA."
where. For such a meeting she did not feel suf
ficiently strong.
Often she thought of quitting Naples and re
turning to England. Yet, after all, she found
a strange comfort in being there. She was near
him. She heard his voice every day, and saw
his face. That was something. And it was
better than absence.
Minnie used always to come to her and pour
forth long accounts of Lord Hawbury — how he
looked, what he said, what he did, and what he
proposed to do. Certainly there was not the
faintest approach to love-making, or even sen
timent, in Hawbury's attitude toward Minnie.
His words were of the world of small-talk — a
world where sentiment and love-making have
but little place. Still there was the evident fact
of his attentions, which were too frequent to be
overlooked.
Hawbury rapidly became the most prominent
subject of Minnie's conversation. She used to
prattle away for hours about him. She alluded
admiringly to his long whiskers. She thought
them " lovely." She said that he was " awfully
nice." She told Mrs. Willoughby that "he
48
THE AMERICAN BARON.
was nicer than any of them ; and then, Kitty
darling," she added, "it's so awfully good of
him not to be coming and saving my life, and
carrying me on his back down a mountain, like
an ogre, and then pretending that he's my fa
ther, you know.
" For you know, Kitty pet, I've always longed
so awfully to see some really nice person, you
know, who wouldn't go and save my life and
bother me. Now he doesn't seem a bit like
proposing. I do hope he won't. Don't you,
Kitty dearest? It's so much nicer not to pro
pose. It's so horrid when they go and propose.
And then, you know, I've had so much of that
sort of thing. So, Kitty, I think he's really the
nicest person that I ever saw, and I really think
I'm beginning to like him."
Far different from these were the conversa
tions which Mrs. Willoughby had with Ethel.
She was perfectly familiar with Ethel's story.
It had been confided to her long ago. She
alone knew why it was that Ethel had walked
untouched through crowds of admirers. The
terrible story of her rescue was memorable to
her for other reasons ; and the one who had
taken the prominent part in that rescue could
not be without interest for her.
" There is no use, Kitty — no use in talking
about it any more," said Ethel one day, after
Mrs. Willoughby had been urging her to show
herself. " I can not. I will not. He has
forgotten me utterly."
" Perhaps he has no idea that you are here.
He has never seen you."
" Has he not been in Naples as long as we
have ? He must have seen me in the streets.
He saw Minnie."
" Do you think it likely that he would come
to this house and slight you? If he had for
gotten you he would not come here."
" Oh yes, he would. He comes to see Min
nie. He knows I am here, of course. He
doesn't care one atom whether I make my ap
pearance or not. He doesn't even give me a
thought. It's so long since that time that he
has forgotten even my existence. He has been
all over the world since then, and has had a
hundred adventures. I have been living quiet
ly, cherishing the remembrance of that one
thing."
"Ethel, is it not worth trying? Go down
and try him."
"I can not bear it. I can not look at him.
I lose all self-command when he is near. I
should make a fool of myself. He would look
at me with a smile of pity. Could I endure
that ? No, Kitty ; my weakness must never be
known to him."
"Oh, Ethel, how I wish you could try it !"
"Kitty, just think how utterly I am forgot
ten. Mark this now. He knows I was at your
house. He must remember your name. He
wrote to me there, and I answered him from
there. He sees you now, and your name must
be associated with mine in his memory of me,
if he has any. Tell me now, Kitty, has he ever
mentioned me? has he ever asked you about
me? has he ever made the remotest allusion to
me?"
Ethel spoke rapidly and impetuously, and as
she spoke she raised herself from the sofa where
she was reclining, and turned her large, earnest
eyes full upon her friend with anxious and ea
ger watchfulness. Mrs. Willoughby looked back
at her with a face full of sadness, and mourn
fully shook her head.
" You see," said Ethel, as she sank down
again — "you see how true my impression is."
"I must say," said Mrs. Willoughby, "that
I thought of this before. I fully expected that
he would make some inquiry after you. I was
so confident in the noble character of the man,
both from your story and the description of oth
ers, that I could not believe you were right.
But you are right, my poor Ethel. I wish I
could comfort you, but I can not. Indeed, my
dear, not only has he not questioned me about
you, but he evidently avoids me. It is not that
he is engrossed with Minnie, for he is not so ;
but he certainly has some reason of his own for
avoiding me. Whenever he speaks to me there
is an evident effort on his part, and though per
fectly courteous, his manner leaves a certain
disagreeable impression. Yes, he certainly has
some reason for avoiding me."
"The reason is plain enough," murmured
Ethel. " He wishes to prevent you from speak
ing about a painful subject, or at least a dis
tasteful one. He keeps you off at a distance by
an excess of formality. He will give you no
opportunity whatever to introduce any mention
of me. And now let me also ask you this —
does he ever take any notice of any allusion
that may be made to me ?"
"I really don't remember hearing any allu
sion to you."
" Oh, that's scarcely possible ! You and Min
nie must sometimes have alluded to 'Ethel.' "
" Well, now that you put it in that light, I
do remember hearing Minnie allude to you on
several occasions. Once she wondered why
' Ethel' did not ride. Again she remarked how
'Ethel' would enjoy a particular view."
"And he heard it?"
"Oh, of course."
" Then there is not a shadow of a doubt left.
He knows I am here. He has forgotten me so
totally, and is so completely indifferent, that he
comes here and pays attention to another who
is in the very same house with me. It is hard.
Oh, Kitty, is it not? Is it not bitter? How
could I have thought this of him?"
A high-hearted girl was Ethel, and a proud
one ; but at this final confirmation of her worst
fears there burst from her a sharp cry, and she
buried her face in her hands, and monned and
wept.
THE AMERICAN BARON.
49
CHAPTER XII.
GIRASOLB AGAIN.
ONE day Mrs. Willoughby and Minnie were
out driving. Hawbury was riding by the car
riage on the side next Minnie, when sudden
ly their attention was arrested by a gentleman
on horseback who was approaching them at an
easy pace, and staring hard at them. Min
nie's hand suddenly grasped her sister's arm
very tightly, while her color came and went
rapidly.
"Oh dear!" sighed Mrs. Willonghby.
"Oh, what shall I do?" said Minnie, in a
hasty whisper. "Can't we pretend not to see
him?"
"Nonsense, you little goose," was the reply.
"How can you think of such rudeness?"
By this time the gentleman had reached
them, and Mrs. Willoughby stopped the car
riage, and spoke to him in a tone of gracious
suavity, in which there was a sufficient recog
nition of his claims upon her attention, mingled
with a slight hauteur that was intended to act
as a check upon his Italian demonstrativeness.
For it was no other than the Count Girasole,
and his eyes glowed with excitement and delight,
and his hat was off and as far away from his head
as possible, and a thousand emotions contend
ed together for expression upon his swarthy and
handsome countenance. As soon as he could
speak he poured forth a torrent of exclamations
with amazing volubility, in the midst of which
his keen black eyes scrutinized very closely the
faces of the ladies, and finally turned an inter
rogative glance upon Hawbury, who sat on his
horse regarding the new-comer with a certain
mild surprise not unmingled with supercilious
ness. Hawbury's chin was in the air, his eyes
rested languidly upon the stranger, and his left
hand toyed with his left whisker. He really
meant no offense whatever. He knew abso
lutely nothing about the stranger, and had not
the slightest intention of giving offense. It
was simply a way he had. It was merely the
normal attitude of the English swell before he
is introduced. As it was, that first glance which
Girasole threw at the English lord inspired him
with the bitterest hate, which was destined to
produce important results afterward.
Mrs. Willoughby was too good-natured and
too wise to slight the Count in any way. Aft
er introducing the two gentlemen she spoke a
few more civil words, and then bowed him away.
But Girasole did not at all take the hint. On
the contrary, as the carriage started, he turned
his horse and rode along with it on the srde
next Mrs. Willoughby. Hawbury elevated his
eyebrows, and stared for an instant, and then
went on talking with Minnie. And now Min
nie showed much more animation than usual.
She was much agitated and excited by this
sudden appearance of one whom she hoped to
have got rid of, and talked rapidly, and laughed
nervously, and was so terrified at the idea that
Girasole was near that she was afraid to look
D
at him, but directed all her attention to Haw
bury. It was a slight, and Girasole showed that
he felt it ; but Minnie could not help it. After
a time Girasole mastered his feelings, and be
gan an animated conversation with Mrs. Wil
loughby in very broken English. Girasole's
excitement at Minnie's slight made him some
what incoherent, his idioms were Italian rather
than English, and his pronunciation was very
bad ; he also had a fashion of using an Italian
word when he did not know the right English
one, and so the consequence was that Mrs. Wil
loughby understood not much more than one-
quarter of his remarks.
Mrs. Willoughby did not altogether enjoy this
state of things, and so she determined to put
an end to it by shortening her drive. She
therefore watched for an opportunity to do this
so as not to make it seem too marked, and
finally reached a place which was suitable.
Here the carriage was turned, when, just as it
was half-way round, they noticed a horseman
approaching. It was Scone Dacres, who had
been following them all the time, and who had
not expected that the carriage would turn.
He was therefore taken completely by surprise,
and was close to them before he could collect
his thoughts so as to do any thing. To evade
them was impossible, and so he rode on. As
he approached, the ladies saw his face. It was
a face that one would remember afterward.
There was on it a profound sadness and dejec
tion, while at the same time the prevailing ex
pression was one of sternness. The ladies both
bowed. Scone Dacres raised his hat, and dis
closed his broad, massive brow. He did not
look at Minnie. His gaze was fixed on Mrs.
Willoughby. Her veil was down, and he seem
ed trying to read her face behind it. As he
passed he threw a quick, vivid glance at Gira
sole. It was not a pleasant glance by any
means, and was full of quick, fierce, and in
solent scrutiny — a " Who-the-devil-are-you ?"
glance. It was for but an instant, however,
and then he glanced at Mrs. Willoughby again,
and then he had passed.
The ladies soon reached their home, and at
once retired to Mrs. Willoughby's room. There
Minnie flung herself upon the sofa, and Mrs.
Willoughby sat down, with a perplexed face.
"What in the world are we to do?" said
she.
"I'm sure /don't know," said Minnie. "I
knew it was going to be so. I said that he
would find me again."
" He is so annoying."
"Yes, but, Kitty dear, we can't be rude to
him, you know, for he saved my life. But
it's horrid, and I really begin to feel quite des
perate."
" I certainly will not let him see you. I
have made up my mind to that."
"And oh! how he u-illbe coming and call-
I ing, and tease, tease, teasing. Oh dear! I do
i wonder what Lord Hawbury thought. He
| looked so amazed. And then — oh, Kitty dear,
50
THE AMERICAN BARON.
it was so awfully funny ! — did you notice that
other man ?"
Mrs. Willoughby nodded her head.
"Did you notice how awfully black he look
ed? He wouldn't look at me at all. /know
why."
Mrs. Willoughby said nothing.
" He's awfully jealous. Oh, / know it. I
saw it in his face. He was as black as a thun
der-cloud. Oh dear ! And it's all about me.
Oh, Kitty darling, what shall 1 do ? There will
be something dreadful, I know. And how
shocking to have it about me. And then the
newspapers. They'll all have it. And the re
porters. Oh dear ! Kitty, why don't you say
something ?"
"Why, Minnie dearest, I really don't know
what to say."
"But, darling, you must say something. And
then that Scone Dacres. I'm more afraid of
him than any bod}-. Oh, I know he's going to
kilt some one. He is so big. Oh, if you had
only been on his back, Kitty darling, and had
him run down a steep mountain-side, you'd be
as awfully afraid of him as I am. Oh, how I
ivish Lord Hawbury would drive them off, or
somebody do something to save me. "
' ' Would you rather that Lord Hawbury would
stay, or would you like him to go too ?"
" Oh dear ! I don't care. If he would only
go quietly and nicely, I should like to have him
go too, and never, never see a man again ex
cept dear papa. And I think it's a shame.
And I don't see why I should be so persecuted.
And I'm tired of staying here. And I don't
want to stay here any more. And, Kitty dar
ling, why shouldn't we all go to Rome ?"
'To Rome?"
"Yes."
"Would you prefer Rome?" asked Mrs.
Willoughby, thoughtfully.
" Well, yes — for several reasons. In the
first place, I must go somewhere, and I'd rather
go there than any where else. Then, you know,
that dear, delightful holy-week will soon be
here, and I'm dying to be in Rome."
"I think it would be better for all of us,"
said Mrs. Willoughby, thoughtfully — "for all
of us, if we were in Rome."
" Of course it would, Kitty sweetest, and es
pecially me. Now if I am in Rome, I can pop
into a convent whenever I choose."
"A convent!" exclaimed Mrs. Willoughby,
in surprise.
"Oh yes — it's going to come to that. They're
all so horrid, you know. Besides, it's getting
worse. I got a letter yesterday from Captain
Kirby, written to me in England. He didn't
know I was here. He has just arrived at Lon
don, and was leaving for our place on what he
called the wings of the wind. I expect him
here at almost any time. Isn't it dreadful,
Kitty dearest, to have so many? As fast as
one goes another comes, and then they all come
together ; and do you know, darling, it really |
makes one feel quite dizzy. I'm sure / don't j
know what to do. And that's why I'm think
ing of a convent, you know. "
" But you're not a Catholic."
" Oh yes, I am, you know. Papa's an Anglo-
Catholic, and I don't see the difference. Be
sides, they're all the time going over to Rome ;
and why shouldn't I? I'll be a novice — that
is, you know, I'll only go for a time, and not
take the vows. The more I think of it, the
more I see that it's the only thing there is for
me to do."
"Well, Minnie, I really think so too, and
not only for you, but for all of us. There's
Ethel, too ; poor dear girl, her health is very
miserable, you know. I think a change would
do her good."
' ' Of course it would ; I've been talking to
her about it. But she won't hear of leaving
Naples. I wish she wouldn't be so awfully sad."
" Oh yes ; it will certainly be the best thing
for dear Ethel, and for you and me and all
of us. Then we must be in Rome in holy-
week. I wouldn't miss that for any thing."
"And then, too, you know, Kitty darling,
there's another thing," said Minnie, very con
fidentially, " and it's very important. In Rome,
you know, all the gentlemen are clergymen —
only, you know, the clergymen of the Roman
Church can't marry ; and so, you know, of
course, they can never propose, no matter if
they were to save one's life over and over again.
And oh ! what a relief that would be to find
one's self among those dear, darling, delightful
priests, and no chance of having one's life saved
and having an instant proposal following! It
would be so charming."
Mrs. Willoughby smiled.
"Well, Minnie dearest," said she, "I really
think that we had better decide to go to Rome,
and I don't see any difficulty in the way."
"The only difficulty that I can see," said
Minnie, "is that I shouldn't like to hurt their
feelings, you know."
"Their feelings!" repeated her sister, in a
doleful voice.
" Yes ; but then, you see, some one's feelings
must be hurt eventually, so that lessens one's
responsibility, you know ; doesn't it, Kitty dar
ling?"
While saying this Minnie had risen and gone
to the window, with the intention of taking her
seat by it. No sooner had she reached the
place, however, than she started back, with a
low exclamation, and, standing on one side,
looked cautiously forth.
"Come here," she said, in a whisper.
Mrs. Willoughby went over, and Minnie di
rected her attention to some one outside. It
was a gentleman on horseback, who was pass
ing at a slow pace. His head was bent on his
breast. Suddenly, as he passed, he raised his
head and threw over the house a quick, search
ing glance. They could see without being seen.
They marked the profound sadness that was
over his face, and saw the deep disappointment
with which his head fell.
THE AMERICAN BARON.
51
"Scone Dacres!" said Minnie, as he passed
on. " How awfully sad he is!"
Mrs. Willoughby said nothing.
"But, after all, I don't believe it's me."
" Why not ?"
" Because he didn't look at me a bit when he
passed to-day. He looked at you, though."
"Nonsense !"
" Yes, and his face had an awfully hungry
look. I know what makes him sad."
"What?"
"He's in love with you."
Mrs. Willoughby stared at Minnie for a mo
ment. Then a short laugh burst from her.
" Child !" she exclaimed, "you have no idea
of any thing in the world but falling in love.
You will find out some day that there are other
feelings than that."
"But, Kitty dear," said Minnie, "didn't you
notice something very peculiar about him?"
"What?"
"I noticed it. I had a good look at him.
I saw that he fixed his eyes on you with — oh !
such a queer look. And he was awfully sad
too. He looked as if he would like to seize
you and lift you on his horse and carry you off,
just like young Lochir.var."
" Me !" said Mrs. Willoughby, with a strange
intonation.
"Yes, you — oh yes; really now."
" Oh, you little goose, you always think of
people rushing after one and carrying one off."
"WTell, I'm sure I've had reason to. So
many people have always been running after
me, and snatching me up as if I were a parcel,
and carrying me every where in all sorts of
places. And I think it's too bad, and I really
wish they'd stop it. But, Kitty dear-
" What ?"
" About this Scone Dacres. Don't you really
think there's something very peculiarly sad,
and very delightfully interesting and pathetic,
and all that sort of thing, in his poor dear old
face ?"
"I think Scone Dacres has suffered a great
deal," said Mrs. Willoughby, in a thoughtful
tone. "But come now. Let us go to Ethel.
She's lonely."
Soon after they joined the other ladies, and
talked over the project of going to Rome. Lady
Dalrymple offered no objection ; indeed, so far
as she had any choice, she preferred it. She
was quite willing at all times to do whatever
the rest proposed, and also was not without
some curiosity as to the proceedings during
holy-week. Ethel offered no objections either.
She had fallen into a state of profound melan
choly, from which nothing now could rouse her,
and so she listened listlessly to the discussion
about the subject. Mrs. Willoughby and Min
nie had the most to say on this point, and of
fered the chief reasons for going; and thus it
was finally decided to take their departure, and
to start as soon as possible.
Meanwhile Girasole had his own thoughts and
experiences. He had already, some time before,
been conscious that his attentions were not want
ed, but it was only on the part of the other la
dies that he noticed any repugnance to himself.
On Minnie's part he had not seen any. In spite
of their graciousness and their desire not to
hurt his feelings, they had not been able to avoid
showing that, while they felt grateful for his
heroism in the rescue of Minnie, they could not
think of giving her to him. They had manoeu
vred well enough to get rid of him, but Girasole
had also manoeuvred on his part to find them
again. He had fallen off from them at first
when he saw that they were determined on ef
fecting this ; but after allowing a sufficient time
to elapse, he had no difficulty in tracking them,
and finding them at Naples, as we have seen.
But here he made one or two discoveries.
One was that Minnie already had an accept
ed lover in the person of Lord Hawbury. The
lofty superciliousness of the British nobleman
seemed to Girasole to be the natural result of
his position, and it seemed the attitude of the
successful lover toward the rejected suitor.
The other discovery was that Minnie herself
was more pleased with the attentions of the En
glish lord than with his own. This was now
evident, and he could not help perceiving that
his difficulties were far more formidable from
the presence of such a rival.
But Girasole was not easily daunted. In the
first place, he had unbounded confidence in his
own fascinations ; in the second place, he be
lieved that he had a claim on Minnie that no
other could equal, in the fact that he had saved
her life ; in the third place, apart from the ques
tion of love, he believed her to be a prize of no
common value, whose English gold would be
welcome indeed to his Italian need and greed ;
while, finally, the bitter hate with which Lord
Hawbury had inspired him gave an additional
zest to the pursuit, and made him follow after
Minnie with fresh ardor.
Once or twice after this he called upon them.
On the first occasion only Lady Dalrymple was
visible. On the second, none of the ladies were
at home. He was baffled, but not discouraged.
Returning from his call, he met Minnie and Mrs.
Willoughby. Hawbury was with them, riding
beside Minnie. The ladies bowed, and Gira
sole, as before, coolly turned his horse and rode
by the carriage, talking with Mrs. Willoughby,
and trying to throw at Minnie what he intend
ed to be impassioned glances. But Minnie
would not look at him. Of course she was
frightened as usual, and grew excited, and. as
before, talked with unusual animation to Haw
bury. Thus she overdid it altogether, and more
than ever confirmed Girasole in the opinion that
she and Hawbury were affianced.
Two days after this Girasole called again.
A bitter disappointment was in store for
him.
They were not there — they had gone.
Eagerly he inquired where.
"To Rome," was the reply.
"To Rome!" he muttered, between his set
52
THE AMERICAN BARON.
"'TO ROME!' HE MUTTERED, BETWEEN HIS SET TEETII."
teeth ; and mounting his horse hurriedly, he
rode away.
He was not one to be daunted. He had set
a certain task before himself, and could not easi
ly be turned aside. He thought bitterly of the
ingratitude with which he had been treated.
He brought before his mind the " stony British
stare," the supercilious smile, and the imperti
nent and insulting expression of Hawbury's face
as he sat on his saddle, with his chin up, strok
ing his whiskers, and surveyed him for the first
time. All these things combined to stimulate
the hate as well as the love of Girasole. He
felt that he himself was not one who could be
lightly dismissed, and determined that they
should learn this.
CHAPTER XIII.
VAIN EEMONSTRANCES.
HAWBURY had immolated himself for as
much as half a dozen times to gratify Dacres.
He had sacrificed himself over and over upon
the altar of friendship, and had allowed him
self to be bored to death because Dacres so
wished it. The whole number of his calls was
in reality only about five or six ; but that num
ber, to one of his taste and temperament, seemed
positively enormous, and represented an im
mense amount of human suffering.
One day, upon reaching his quarters, after
one of these calls, he found Dacres there, mak
ing himself, as usual, very much at home.
"Well, my dear fellow," said Hawbury,
cheerfully, "how waves the flag now? Are
you hauling it down, or are you standing to
your guns ? Toss over the cigars, and give an
account of yourself. "
"Do you know any thing about law, Haw-
bury ?" was Dacres's answer.
"Law?"
"Yes."
"No, not much. But what in the world
makes you ask such a question as that ? Law !
No — not I."
"Well, there's a point that I should like to
ask somebody about."
"Why not get a lawyer?"
"An Italian lawyer's no use."
" Well, English lawyers are to be found. I
dare say there are twenty within five minutes'
distance of this place."
" Oh, I don't want to bother. I only want
ed to ask some one's opinion in a general way."
"Well, what's the point?"
"Why this," said Dacres, after a little hesi
tation. "You've heard of outlawry ?"
" Should think I had — Robin Hood and his
merry men, Lincoln green, Sherwood Forest,
and all that sort of thing, you know. But
what the mischief sets you thinking about Robin
Hood ?"
" Oh, I don't mean that rot. I mean real
outlawry — when a fellow's in debt, you know."
"Well?"
"Well; if he goes out of the country, and
stays away a certain number of years, the debt's
outlawed, you know."
" The deuce it is ! Is it, though ? I've been
in debt, but I always managed to pull through
without getting so far. But that's convenient
for some fellows too."
" I'm a little muddy about it, but I've heard
something to this effect. I think the time is
seven years. If the debt is not acknowledged
during the interval, it's outlawed. And now,
'pon my life, my dear fellow, I really don't know
but that I've jumbled up some fragments of
English law with American. I felt that I was
muddy, and so I thought I'd ask you."
"Don't know any more about it than about
the antediluvians."
"It's an important point, and I should like
to have it looked up."
"Well, get a lawyer here; half London is
on the Continent. But still, my dear fellow, I
don't see what you're driving at. You're not
in debt?"
" No — this isn't debt; but it struck me that
this might possibly apply to other kinds of con
tracts."
"Oh!"
"Yes."
"How — such as what, for instance?"
"Well, you see, I thought, you know, that
all contracts might be included under it ; and so
I thought that if seven years or so annulled
all contracts, it might have some effect, you
know, upon — the — the — the marriage contract,
vou know."
THE AMERICAN BARON.
53
At this Hawbury started up, stared at Da-
cres, gave a loud whistle, and then exclaimed,
"By Jove!"
"I may be mistaken, "said Dacres, modestly.
" Mistaken ? Why, old chap, you're mad.
Marriage ? Good Lord ! don't you know no
thing can abrogate that? Of course, in case
of crime, one can get a divorce ; but there is no
other way. Seven years ? By Jove ! A good
idea that. Why, man, if that were so, the king
dom would be depopulated. Husbands run
ning off from wives, and wives from husbands,
to pass the required seven years abroad. By
Jove ! You see, too, there's another thing, my
boy. Marriage is a sacrament, and you've not
only got to untie the civil knot, but the clerical
one, my boy. No, no ; there's no help for it.
You gave your word, old chap, 'till death do
us part,' and you're in for it."
At this Dacres said nothing ; it appeared to
dispel his project from his mind. He relapsed
into a sullen sort of gloom, and remained so
for some time. At last he spoke :
" Hawbury!"
"Well?"
" Have you found out who that fellow is ?"
"What fellow?"
"WThy that yellow Italian that goes prowl
ing around after my wife."
"Oh yes; I heard something or other to
day. "
"What was it?"
"Well, it seems that he saved her life, or
something of that sort."
" Saved her life !" Dacres started. "How ?
where? Cool, too!"
"Oh, on the Alps somewhere."
" On the Alps ! saved her life ! Come now,
I like that," said Dacres, with bitter intona
tion. Aha! don't I know her? I warrant
you she contrived all that. Oh, she's deep!
But how did it happen ? Did you hear ?"
" Well, I didn't hear any thing very definite.
It was something about a precipice. It was
Lady Dairy m pie that told me. It seems she
was knocked over a precipice by an avalanche. "
" Was what ? Knocked where ? Over a prec
ipice ? By a what — an avalanche ? Good Lord !
I don't believe it. I swear I don't. She in
vented it all. It's some of her infernal hum
bug. She slid off over the snow, so as to get
him to go after her. Oh, don't I know her
and her ways !"
"Well, come now, old man, you shouldn't
be too hard on her. You never said that flirt
ation was one of her faults."
" Well, neither it was ; but, as she is a demon,
she's capable of any thing ; and now she has so
bered down, and all her vices have taken this
turn. Oh yes. I know her. No more storms
now — no rage, no fury — all quiet and sly. Flirt
ation ! Ha, ha ! That's the word. And my
wife! And going about the country, tumbling
over precipices, with devilish handsome Italians
going down to save her life ! Ha, ha, ha ! I
like that!"
"See here, old boy, I swear you're too sus
picious. Come now. You're going too far.
If she chooses, she may trump up the same
charge against you and the child-angel at Ve
suvius. Come now, old boy, be just. You can
afford to. Your wife may be a fiend in hu
man form ; and if you insist upon it, I've nothing
to say. But this last notion of yours is nothing
but the most wretched absurdity. It's worse.
It's lunacy."
"Well, well," said Dacres, in a milder tone :
" perhaps she didn't contrive it. But then, you
know," he added, "it's just as good for her.
She gets the Italian. Ha, ha, ha!"
His laugh was forced, feverish, and unnat
ural. Hawbury didn't like it, and tried to
change the subject.
"Oh, by-the-way," said he, "you needn't
have any further trouble about any of them.
You don't seem inclined to take any definite
action, so the action will be taken for you."
"What do you mean?"
" I mean that they are all going to leave Na
ples."
" To leave Naples !"
Dacres uttered this in a voice of grief and
surprise which astonished Hawbury and touch
ed him.
" Yes," he said. "You know they've been
here long enough. They want to see Rome.
Holy-week, you know. No end of excitement.
Illumination of St. Peter's, and all that sort of
thing, you know. "
Dacres relapsed into sombre silence. For
more than half an hour he did not say a word.
Hawbury respected his mood, and watched him
with something approaching to anxiety.
"Hawbury," said he at last.
"Well, old man?"
"I'm going to Rome."
"You — to Rome !"
"Yes, me, to Rome."
" Oh, nonsense ! See here, old boy. You'd
really better not, you know. Break it up. You
can't do any thing."
" I'm going to Rome," repeated Dacres, stol
idly. "I've made up my mind."
"But, really, "remonstrated Hawbury. "See
here now, my dear fellow : look here, you know.
By Jove! you don't consider, really."
" Oh yes, I do. I know every thing ; I con
sider every thing."
"But what good will it do?"
"It won't do any good; but it may prevent
some evil."
"Nothing but evil can ever come of it."
" Oh, no evil need necessarily come of it. "
" By Jove !" exclaimed Hawbury, who began
to be excited. " Really, my dear fellow, you
don't think. You see you can't gain any thing.
She's surrounded by friends, you know. She
never can be yours, you know. There's a great
gulf between you, and all that sort of thing, you
know."
"Yes," repeated Dacres, catching his last
words — "yes, a great gulf, as deep as the bot-
THE AMERICAN BARON.
tomless abyss, never to oe traversed, where she
stands on one side, and I on the other, and be
tween us hate, deep and pitiless hate, undying,
eternal!"
"Then, by Jove ! my dear fellow, what's the
use of trying to fight against it ? You can't do
any thing. If this were Indiana, now, or even
New York, I wouldn't say any thing, you know ;
but you know an Indiana divorce wouldn't do
you any good. Her friends wouldn't take you
on those terms — and she wouldn't. Not she,
by Jove !"
"I must go. I must follow her," continued
Dacres. " The sight of her has roused a devil
within me that I thought was laid. I'm a
changed man, Hawbury."
" I should think so, by Jove !"
"A changed man," continued Dacres. "Oh,
Heavens, what power there is in a face ! What
terrific influence it has over a man ! Here am
I ; a few days ago I was a free man ; now I am
a slave. But, by Heaven ! I'll follow her to
the world's end. She shall not shake me off.
She thinks to be happy without me. She shall
not. I will silently follow as an avenging fate.
I can not have her, and no one else shall. The
same cursed fate that severs her from me shall
keep her away from others. If I am lonely
and an exile, she shall not be as happy as she
expects. I shall not be the onlv one to suf
fer."
" See here, by Jove ! " cried Hawbury. " Real
ly. You're going too far, my dear boy, you know.
You are, really. Come now. This is just like
a Surrey theatre, you know. You're really rav
ing. Why, my poor old boy, you must give her
up. You can't do any thing. You daren't call
on her. You're tied hand and foot. You may
worship her here, and rave about your child-
angel till you're black in the face, but you nev
er can see her ; and as to all this about stopping
her from marrying any other person, that's all
rot and bosh. What do you suppose any other
man would care for your nonsensical ravings ?
Lonely and an exile ! Why, man, she'll be
married and done for in three months."
"You don't understand me," said Dacres,
dryly.
"I'm glad that I don't; but it's no wonder,
old man, for really you were quite incoher
ent."
"And so they're going to Rome," said Da
cres. "Well, they'll find that I'm not to be
shaken off so easily."
" Come now, old man, you must give up
that."
"And I suppose," continued Dacres, with a
sneer, "our handsome, dark-eyed little Italian
cavalier is going with us. Ha, ha, ha ! He's
at the house all the time, no doubt."
"Well, yes; he was there once."
"Ah! of course — quite devoted."
" Oh yes ; but don't be afraid. It was no
to the child-angel. She appears to avoid him
That's really quite evident. It's an apparen
aversion on her part."
Dacres drew a long breath.
"Oh," said he; "and so I suppose it's not
er that he goes after. I did not suppose that
t was. Oh no. There's another one — more
iquant, you know — ha, ha! — a devoted lover
— saved her life — quite devoted — and she sits
ind accepts his attentions. Yet she's seen me,
ind knows that I'm watching her. Don't she
now me* Does she want any further proof
of what I am ready to do? The ruins of
Dacres Grange should serve her for life. She
empts fate when she carries on her gallantries
and her Italian cicisbeism under the eyes of
Scone Dacres. It '11 end bad. By Heaven, it
will!"
Scone Dacres breathed hard, and, raising his
lead, turned upon Hawbury a pair of eyes
whose glow seemed of fire.
" Bad !" he repeated, crashing his fist on the
table. "Bad, by Heaven!"
Hawbury looked at him earnestly.
"My dear boy," said he, "you're getting too
excited. Be cool. Really, I don't believe you
know what you're saying. I don't understand
what you mean. Haven't the faintest idea what
you're driving at. You're making ferocious
threats against some people, but, for my life,
I don't know who they are. Hadn't you bet
ter try to speak so that a fellow can under
stand the general drift, at least, of what you
say ?"
"Well, then, you understand this much —
I'm going to Rome."
"I'm sorry for it, old boy."
"And see here, Hawbury, I want you to
come with me."
"Me? What for?"
" Well, I want you. I may have need of
you."
As Dacres said this his face assumed so dark
and gloomy an expression that Hawbury began
to think that there was something serious in all
this menace.
"Ton my life," said he, "my dear boy, I
really don't think you're in a fit state to be al
lowed to go by yourself. You look quite des
perate. I wish I could make you give up this
infernal Roman notion."
" I'm going to Rome !" repeated Dacres, res
olutely.
Hawbury looked at him.
" You'll come, Hawbury, won't you ?"
" Why, confound it all, of course. I'm afraid
you'll do something rash, old man, and you'll
have to have me to stand between you and
harm."
" Oh, don't be concerned about me," said
Dacres. " I only want to watch her, and sec
what her little game is. I want to look at her
in the midst of her happiness. She's most in
fernally beautiful, too ; hasn't added a year or
a day to her face ; more lovely than ever ; more
beautiful than she was even when I first saw
her. And there's a softness about her that she
never had before. Where the deuce did she get
that? Good idea of hers, too, to cultivate the
THE AMERICAN BARON.
55
soft style. And there's sadness in her face, too.
Can it be real ? By Heavens ! if I thought it
could be real I'd — but pooh ! what insanity !
It's her art. There never was such cunning.
• She cultivates the soft, sad style so as to at
tract lovers — lovers — who adore her — who save
her life — who become her obedient slaves ! Oh
yes ; and I — what am I ? Why they get to
gether and laugh at me; they giggle; they
snicker — "
"Confound it all, man, what are you going
on at that rate for?" interrupted Hawbury.
"Are you taking leave of your senses altogeth
er? By Jove, old man, you'd better give up
this Roman journey."
"No, I'll keep at it."
" What for ? Confound it ! I don't see your
object."
"My object? Why, I mean to follow her.
I can't give her up. I won't give her up. I'll
follow her. She shall see me every where. I'll
follow her. She sha'n't go any where without
seeing me on her track. She shall see that she
is mine. She shall know that she's got a mas
ter. She shall find herself cut off from that but
terfly life which she hopes to enter. I'll be her
fate, and she shall know it."
"By Jove!" cried Hawbury. "What the
deuce is all this about ? Are you mad, or what ?
Look here, old boy, you're utterly beyond me,
you know. What the mischief do you mean ?
Whom are you going to follow ? Whose fate are
you going to be ? Whose track are you talking
about?"
" Who ?" cried Dacres. "Why, my wife !"
As he said this he struck his fist violently on
the table.
"The deuce!" exclaimed Hawbury, staring
at him ; after which he added, thoughtfully,
" by Jove !"
Not much more was said. Dacres sat in si
lence for a long time, breathing hard, and puff
ing violently at his cigar. Hawbury said no
thing to interrupt his meditation. After an
hour or so Dacres tramped off in silence, and
Hawbury was left to meditate over the situa
tion.
And this was the result of his meditations.
He saw that Dacres was greatly excited, and
had changed completely from his old self. His
stateof mind seemed actually dangerous. There
was an evil gleam in his eyes that looked like
madness. What made it more perplexing still
was the new revulsion of feeling that now was
manifest. It was not so much love for the child-
angel as bitter and venomous hate for his wife.
The gentler feeling had given place to the stern
er one. It might have been possible to attempt
an argument against the indulgence of the for
mer; but what could words avail against re
venge ? And now there was rising in the soul
of Dacres an evident thirst for vengeance, the re
sult of those injuries which had been carried in
his heart and brooded over for years. The sight
of his wife had evidently kindled all this. If
she had not come across his path he might have
forgotten all ; but she had come, and all was
revived. She had come, too, in a shape which
was adapted in the highest degree to stimulate
all the passion of Dacres's soul — young, beau
tiful, fascinating, elegant, refined, rich, honored,
courted, and happy. Upon such a being as this
the homeless wanderer, the outcast, looked, and
his soul seemed turned to fire as he gazed.
Was it any wonder ?
All this Hawbury thought, and with full sym
pathy for his injured friend. He saw also that
Dacres could not be trusted by himself. Some
catastrophe would be sure to occur. He de
termined, therefore, to accompany his friend,
so as to do what he could to avert the calamity
which he dreaded.
And this was the reason why he went with
Dacres to Rome.
As for Dacres, he seemed to be animated by
but one motive, which he expressed over and
over again :
" She stood between me and my child-an
gel, and so will I stand between her and her
Italian!"
CHAPTER XIV.
THE ZOUAVE OFFICER.
WHATEVER trouble Ethel had experienced at
Naples from her conviction that Hawbury was
false was increased and, if possible, intensified
by the discovery that he had followed them to
Rome. His true motives for this could not pos
sibly be known to her, so she, of course, conclud
ed that it was his infatuation for Minnie, and
his determination to win her for himself. She
felt confident that he knew that she belonged to
the party, but was so utterly indifferent to her
that he completely ignored her, and had not
sufficient interest in her to ask the commonest
question about her. All this, of course, only con
firmed her previous opinion, and it also deepened
her melancholy. One additional effect it also
had, and that was to deprive her of any pleas
ure that might be had from drives about Rome.
She felt a morbid dread of meeting him some
where ; she did not yet feel able to encounter
him ; she could not trust herself; she felt sure
that if she saw him she would lose all self-
control, and make an exhibition of humiliating
weakness. The dread of this was sufficient to
detain her at home ; and so she remained in
doors, a prisoner, refusing her liberty, brooding
over her troubles, and striving to acquire that
indifference to him which she believed he had
toward her. Now going about was the very
thing which would have alleviated her woes, but
this was the very thing that she was unwilling to
do ; nor could any persuasion shake her resolve.
One day Mrs. Willoughby and Minnie were
out driving, and in passing through a street they
encountered a crowd in front of one of the
churches. Another crowd was inside, and, as
something was going on, they stopped the car
riage and sat looking. The Swiss Guards were
5G
THE AMERICAN BARON.
there in their picturesque costume, and the
cardinals in their scarlet robes and scarlet
coaches, and military officers of high rank, and
carriages of the Roman aristocracy filled with
beautiful ladies. Something of importance was
going on, the nature of which they did not know.
A little knot of Englishmen stood near; and from
their remarks the ladies gathered that this was
the Church of the Jesuits, and that the Pope in
person was going to perform high-mass, and
afterward hold a reception.
Soon there arose a murmur and a bustle
among the crowd, which was succeeded by a
deep stillness. The Swiss Guards drove the
throng to either side, and a passage-way was
thus formed through the people to the church.
A carriage drove up in great state. In this was
seated an elderly gentleman in rich pontifical
robes. He had a mild and gentle face, upon
which was a sweet and winning smile. No face
is more attractive than that of Pio Nono.
" Oh, look !" cried Minnie ; " that must be
the Pope. Oh, what a darling !"
Mrs. Willoughby, however, was looking else
where.
"Minnie," said she.
"What, Kitty dear?"
"Are you acquainted with any Zouave of
ficer ?"
" Zouave officer ! Why, no ; what put such
a thing as that into your head, you old silly ?"
" Because there's a Zouave officer over there
in the crowd who has been staring fixedly at
us ever since we came up, and trying to make
signals, and it's my opinion he's signaling to
you. Look at him ; he's over there on the top
of the steps."
" I won't look, " said Minnie, pettishly. " How
do I know who he is ? I declare I'm afraid to
look at any body. He'll be coming and saving
my life."
"I'm snre this man is an old acquaintance."
" Nonsense ! how can he be ?"
"It may be Captain Kirby."
" How silly ! Why, Captain Kirby is in the
Rifles."
"Perhaps he is dressed this way just for
amusement. Look at him."
"Now, Kitty, I think you're unkind. Yon
know I don't want to look at him ; I don't want
to see him. I don't care who he is — the great,
big, ugly, old horrid ! And if you say any thing
more, I'll go home."
Mrs. Willoughby was about to say something,
but her attention and Minnie's, and that of every
one else, was suddenly diverted to another quar
ter.
Among the crowd they had noticed a tall man,
very thin, with a lean, cadaverous face, and long,
lanky, rusty black hair. He wore a white neck
tie, and a suit of rusty black clothes. He also
held a large umbrella in his hand, which he kept
carefully up out of the way of the crowd. This
figure was a conspicuous one, even in that crowd,
and the ladies had noticed it at the very first.
As the Pope drove up they saw this long,
slim, thin, cadaverous man, in his suit of rusty
black, edging his way through the crowd, so as
to get nearer, until at length he stood immedi
ately behind the line of Swiss Guards, who were
keeping the crowd back, and forming a passage
way for the Pope. Meanwhile his Holiness was
advancing through the crowd. He reached out
his hand, and smiled and bowed and murmur
ed a blessing over them. At last his carriage
stopped. The door was opened, and several at-
tendants prepared to receive the Pope and as
sist him out.
At that instant the tall, slim stranger pushed
forward his sallow head, with its long, lanky,
and rusty black hair, between two Swiss Guards,
and tried to squeeze between them. The Swiss
at first stood motionless, and the stranger had
actually succeeded in getting about half-wuy
through. He was immediately in front of his
Holiness, and staring at him with all his might.
His Holiness saw this very peculiar face, and
was so surprised that he uttered an involuntary
exclamation, and stopped short in his descent.
The stranger stopped short too, and quite in
voluntarily also. For the Swiss Guards, irritated
by his pertinacity, and seeing the Pope's ges
ture, turned suddenly, and two of them grasped
the stranger by his coat collar.
It was, of course, an extremely undignified
attitude for the Swiss Guards, whose position is
simply an ornamental one. Nothing but the
most unparalleled outrage to their dignity could
have moved them to this. So unusual a dis
play of energy, however, did not last long. A
few persons in citizens' clothes darted forward
from among the crowd, and secured the stranger;
while the Swiss, seeing who they were, resumed
their erect, rigid, and ornamental attitude. The
Pope found no longer any obstacle, and resumed
his descent. For a moment the stranger had cre
ated a wide-spread consternation in the breasts
of all the different and very numerous classes
of men who composed that crowd. The arrest
was the signal for a murmur of voices, among
which the ladies heard those of the knot of En
glishmen who stood near.
"It's some Garibaldian," said they.
And this was the general sentiment.
Several hours after this they were at home,
and a caller was announced. It was the Baron
Atramonte.
" Atramonte ! " said Lady Dalrymple. ' ' Who
is that ? We're not at home, of course. Atra
monte ! Some of these Italian nobles. Real
ly, I think we have seen enough of them. Who
is he, Kitty ?"
"I'm sure I haven't the faintest idea. I
never heard of him in my life."
" We're not at home, of course. It's a sin
gular way, and surely can not be Roman fash
ion. It's not civilized fashion. But the Con
tinental nobility are so odd."
In a few minutes the sen-ant, who had been
dispatched to say, "Not at home," returned with
the statement that the Baron wished particular-
' ly to see Miss Fay on urgent business.
THE AMERICAN BARON.
57
"TWO OF THEM GKABPED THE STRANGER BY HIS COAT COLLAR.
At this extraordinary message Lady Dal-
rymple and Mrs. Willoughby looked first at one
another, and then at Minnie, in amazement.
" I'm sure /don't know any thing about him,"
said Minnie. " They always tease me so. Oh,
do go and see who he is, and send him away —
please! Oh, do, please, Dowdy dear!"
"Well, I suppose I had better see the per
son," said Lady Dalrymple, good-naturedly.
"There must be some mistake. How is he
dressed?" she asked the servant. "Is he a
military gentleman ? Most of them seem to
belong to the army."
"Yes, my lady. Zouave dress, my lady."
At this Mrs. Willoughby and Minnie looked
at one another. Lady Dalrymple went away ;
and as no other was present, Ethel being, as
usual, in her room, Mrs. Willoughby sighed and
said,
"I thought that man must know you."
"Well, I'm sure I don't know him," said
Minnie. "I never knew a Zouave officer in
my life."
" It may be Captain Kirby, under an assumed
name and a disguise."
"Oh no, it isn't. I don't believe he would
be such a perfect — monster. Oh dear! It's
somebody, though. It must be. And he wants
me. Oh, what shall I do ?"
"Nonsense ! You need not go. Aunty will
see him, and send him off."
"Oh, I do so hope he'll go; but I'm afraid
he won't. "
After a short time Lady Dalrymple returned.
"Really," said she, "this is a most extraor
dinary person. He speaks English, but not at all
like an Englishman. I don't know who he is.
He calls himself a Baron, but he doesn't seem
to be a foreigner. I'm puzzled."
"I hope he's gone," said Mrs. Willoughby.
"No — that's the worst of it. He won't go.
He says he must see Minnie, and he won't tell
his errand. I told him that he could not see
you, but that I would tell you what he wanted,
and that you were not at home. And what do
you think he said ?"
"I'm sure I don't know, Dowdy dear."
" Why, he said he had nothing to do, and
would wait till you came back. And he took
his seat in a way that showed that he meant to
wait. Really, I'm quite at a loss what to do.
You'll have to see him, Kitty dear."
"What a strange person!" said Mrs. Wil
loughby. " It's so rude. And don't you know
what he is? How do you know he isn't an
Italian ?"
"Oh, his English, you know. He speaks it
perfectly, but not like an Englishman, you know,
nor like a Scotchman either, or an Irishman.
I wonder whether he may not be an American ?"
At this Minnie started.
"Oh dear!" she said.
"What's the matter, darling?"
"An American! Oh dear! what will be
come of me ! "
"Why," said Lady Dalrymple, "do you
know him, then, after all?"
"Oh, I'm so afraid that I know him !"
THE AMERICAN BARON.
"Who is it, dear?"
" Oh, Dowdy ! Oh, Kitty !"
"What's the matter?"
"It must be that man. Oh, was there ever
such a trouble — "
"Really, Minnie dearest, you are allowing
yourself to get too agitated. Who is this per
son ?"'
" He — he's — an — American."
" An American ? Why, I just said that I
thought he might be one. I didn't know that
you were acquainted with any."
" Oh yes ; I did get acquainted with some in
— in Canada. "
" Oh ; and is this man a Canadian ?''
"No, Dowdy darling; only an American."
"Well, if he's a friend of yours, I suppose
you know something about him. But how sin
gular it is that you have so completely forgot
ten his name. Atramonte? Why, I'm sure
it's a very singular name for an American gen
tleman — at least it seems so to me — but I don't
know much about them, you know. Tell me,
darling, who is he ?"
"He — he saved my life."
"What! saved your life ? Why, my precious
child, what are you talking about ? It was the
Italian that saved your life, you know, not
this one."
"Oh, but he did too," said Minnie, despair
ingly. "I couldn't help it. He would do it.
Papa was washed away. I wish they all wouldn't
be so horrid."
Lady Dalrymple looked in an equally despair
ing manner at Mrs. Willoughby.
"What is it, Kitty dear? Is the child in
sane, or what does she mean ? How could this
person have saved her life ?"
"That's just what distracts me," said Min
nie. "They all do it. Every single person
comes and saves my life. And now I suppose
I must go down and see this person."
"Well, really, since you say he saved your
life, perhaps it would be as well not to be un
civil," said Lady Dalrymple ; "but, at the same
time, he seems to me to act in a very extraor
dinary manner. And he calls himself a Baron.
Do they have nobles in America?"
' ' I'm sure I don't know, Dowdy dear. I
never knew that he was a Baron. He may
have been the son of some American B^aron ;
and — and — I'm sure I don't know."
"Nonsense, Minnie dear," said Mrs. Wil
loughby. "This man's title is a foreign one.
He probably obtained it in Italy or Spain, or
perhaps Mexico. I think they have titles in
Mexico, though I really don't know."
" Why, of course, one isn't expected to know
any thing about America," said Lady Dalrym
ple. "I can mention quite a number of En
glish statesmen, members of the cabinet, and
others, who don't know any more about Ameri
ca than I do."
"Do you really intend to go down yourself
and see him, Minnie dear?" asked Mrs. Wil
loughby.
" How can I help it ? What am I to do ? I
must go, Kitty darling. He is so very positive,
and — and he insists so. I don't want to hurt
his feelings, you know ; and I really think there
is nothing for me to do but to go. What do
you think about it, Dowdy dear ?" and she ap
pealed to her aunt.
"Well, Minnie, my child, I think it would
be best not to be unkind or uncivil, since he
saved your life."
Upon this Minnie accompanied her sister to
see the visitor.
Mrs. Willoughby entered the room first, and
Minnie was close behind her, as though she
sought protection from some unknown peril.
On entering the room they saw a man dressed
in Zouave uniform. His hair was cropped
short ; he wore a mustache and no beard ; his
features were regular and handsome ; while a
pair of fine dark eyes were looking earnestly
at the door, and the face and the eyes had the
expression of one who is triumphantly await
ing the result of some agreeable surprise. Mrs.
Willoughby at once recognized the stranger as
the Zouave officer who had stared at them near
the Church of the Jesuits. She advanced with
lady-like grace toward him, when suddenly he
stepped hastily past her, without taking any
notice of her, and catching Minnie in his arms,
he kissed her several times.
Mrs. Willoughby started back in horror.
Minnie did not resist, nor did she scream, or
faint, or do any thing. She only looked a little
confused, and managed to extricate herself, aft
er which she took a scat as far away as she
could, putting her sister between her and the
Zouave. But the Zouave's joy was full, and
he didn't appear to notice it. He settled him
self in a chair, and laughed loud in his happi
ness.
"Only to think of it," said he. "Why, I
had no more idea of your being here, Minnie,
than Victory. Well, here you see me. Only
been here a couple of months or so. You got my
last favor, of course? And ain't you regular
knocked up to see me a Baron ? Yes, a Baron
— a real, live Baron ! I'll tell you all about it.
You see I was here two or three years ago — the
time of Montana — and fought on the Pope's side.
Odd thing, too, wasn't it, for an American ? But
so it was. Well, they promoted me, and want
ed me to stay. But I couldn't fix it. I had
business off home, and was on my way there
the time of the shipwreck. Well, I've been
dodgin' all round every where since then, but
never forgettin' little Min, mind you, and at
last I found myself here, all right. I'd been
speculatin' in wines and raisins, and just dropped
in here to take pot-luck with some old Zouave
friends, when, darn me! if they didn't make
me stay. It seems there's squally times ahead.
They wanted a live man. They knew I was
that live man. They offered me any thing I
wanted. They offered me the title of Baron
Atramonte. That knocked me, I tell you.
SMVS I, I'm your man. So now you see me
THE AMERICAN BARON.
59
"CATCHING MINNIE IN HIS ARMS, HE KISSED HEB SEVEBAL TIMES."
Baron Atramonte, captain in the Papal Zon-
aves, ready to go where glory waits me — but
fonder than ever of little Min. Oh, I tell you
what, I ain't a bit of a brag, but I'm some here.
The men think I'm a little the tallest lot in
the shape of a commander they ever did see.
When I'm in Rome I do as the Romans do,
and so I let fly at them a speech every now
and then. Why, I've gone through nearly the
whole 'National Speaker' by this time. I've
given them Marcellus's speech to the mob, Bru-
tus's to the Romans, and Antony's over Caesar's
dead body. I tried a bit of Cicero against
Catiline, but I couldn't remember it very well.
You know it, of course. Qumtsque tandem, you
know.
"Well, Min, how goes it?" he continued.
"This is jolly ; and, what's more, it's real good
in you — darn me if it ain't ! I knew you'd be
regularly struck up all of a heap when you heard
of me as a Baron, but I really didn't think you'd
come all the way here to see me. And you do
look stunning ! You do beat all ! And this
lady ? You haven't introduced me, you know."
The Baron rose, and looked expectantly at
Mrs. Willoughby, and then at Minnie. The
latter faltered forth some words, among which
the Baron caught the names Mrs. Willoughby
and Rufus K. Gunn, the latter name pronounced,
with the middle initial and all, in a queer, prim
way.
" Mrs. Willoughby — ah ! — Min's sister, I pre
sume. Well, I'm pleased to see you, ma'am.
Do you know, ma'am, I have reason to re
member your name? It's associated with the
brightest hours of my life. It was in your par
lor, ma'am, that I first obtained Min's promise
of her hand. Your hand, madam."
And, stooping down, he grasped Mrs. Wil-
loughby's hand, which was not extended, and
wrung it so hard that she actually gave a little
shriek.
"For my part, ma'am," he continued, "I'm
not ashamed of my name — not a mite. It's a
good, honest name: but being as the Holy
Father's gone and made me a noble, I prefer
being addressed by my title. All Americans
are above titles. They despise them. But be
ing in Rome, you see, we must do as the Ro
mans do ; and so you needn't know me as Rnfus
60
THE AMERICAN BARON.
K. Gunn, but as the Baron Atramonte. As for
you, Min — you and I won't stand on ceremony
— you may call me 'Roof,' or any other name
you fancy. I would suggest some pet name —
something a little loving, you know."
In the midst of all this, which was poured
forth with extreme volubility, the servant came
and handed a card.
"Count Girasole."
CHAPTER XV.
THE AMERICAN BABON.
AT any other time Mrs. Willoughby would
perhaps have manoeuvred Minnie out of the
room ; but on the present occasion the ad
vent of the Italian was an inexpressible relief.
Mrs. Willoughby was not prepared for a scene
like this. The manners, the language, and the
acts of Rufus K. Gunn had filled her with sim
ple horror. She was actually bewildered, and
her presence of mind was utterly gone. As for
Minnie, she was quite helpless, and sat, looking
frightened. The Baron Atramonte might have
been one of the excellent of the earth — he might
have been brave and loyal and just and true and
tender, but his manner was one to which they
were unaccustomed, and consequently Mrs.
Willoughby was quite overcome.
The arrival of Girasole, therefore, was greet
ed by her with joy. She at once rose to meet
him, and could not help infusing into her greet
ing a warmth which she had never shown him
before. Girasole's handsome eyes sparkled
with delight, and when Mrs. Willoughby point
edly made way for him to seat himself next to
Minnie his cup of joy was full. Mrs. Wil-
loughby's only idea at that moment was to
throw some obstacle between Minnie and that
" dreadful person" who claimed her as his own,
and had taken such shocking liberties. She
did not know that Girasole was in Rome, and
now accepted his arrival at that opportune mo
ment as something little less than providential.
And now, actuated still by the idea of throw
ing further obstacles between Minnie and the
Baron, she herself went over to the latter,
and began a series of polite remarks about the
weather and about Rome ; while Girasole, eager
to avail himself of his unexpected privilege,
conversed with Minnie in a low voice in his
broken English.
This arrangement was certainly not very
agreeable to the Baron. His flow of spirits
seemed to be checked at once, and his volu
bility ceased. He made only monosyllabic an
swers to Mrs. Willoughby's remarks, and his
eyes kept wandering over beyond her to Min
nie, and scrutinizing the Italian who was thus
monopolizing her at the very moment when he
was beginning to have a "realizing sense" of her
presence. He looked puzzled. He could not
understand it at all. He felt that some wrong
was done by somebody. He fell into an un
gracious mood. He hated the Italian who had
thus come between him and his happiness, and
who chatted with Minnie, in his abominable
broken English, just like an old acquaintance.
He couldn't understand it. He felt an unpleas
ant restraint thrown over him, and began to
meditate a departure, and a call at some more
favorable time later in the evening. But he
wanted to have a few more words with " Min,"
and so he tried to " sit out" the Italian.
But the Italian was as determined as the
American. It was the first chance that he had
had to get a word with Minnie since he was in
Milan, and he was eager to avail himself of it.
Mrs. Willoughby, on her part, having thus dis
comfited the Baron, was not unmindful of the
other danger ; so she moved her seat to a posi
tion near enough to overlook and check Gira
sole, and then resumed those formal, chilling,
heartless, but perfectly polite remarks which
she had been administering to the Baron since
Girasole's arrival.
At length Mrs. Willoughby began to be dread
fully bored, and groaned in spirit over the sit
uation in which Minnie had placed herself, and
racked her brains to find some way of retreat
from these two determined lovers, who thus set
at naught the usages of society for their own
convenience. She grew indignant. She won
dered if they would ever go. She wondered if
it were not possible to engage the Count and
the Baron in a conversation by themselves, and,
under cover of it, withdraw. Finally she began
to think whether she would not be justified in
being rude to them, since they were so incon
siderate. She thought over this, and was rap
idly coming to the decision that some act of
rudeness was her only hope, when, to her im
mense relief, the servant entered and announced
Lord Hawbury.
THE AMERICAN BARON.
61
The entrance of the welcome guest into the
room where the unwelcome ones were seated
was to Mrs. Willoughby like light in a dark
place. To Minnie also it brought immense re
lief in her difficult position. The ladies rose,
and were about to greet the new-comer, when,
to their amazement, the Baron sprang forward,
caught Lord Hawbury's hand, and wrung it
over and over again with the most astonishing
vehemence.
"Hawbury, as I'm a living sinner! Thun-
deration ! Where did you come from ? Good
again ! Darn it all, Hawbury, this is real good !
And how well you look ! How are you ? All
right, and right side up ? Who'd have thought
it ? It ain't you, really, now, is it ? Darn me
if I ever was so astonished in my life ! You're
the last man I'd have expected. Yes, Sir.
You may bet high on that."
"Ah, really," said Hawbury, "my dear fel
low ! Flattered, I'm sure. And how goes it
with you ? Deuced odd place to find you, old
boy. And I'm deuced glad to see you, you
know, and all that sort of thing."
And he wrung the Baron's hand quite as
heartily as the other wrung his; and the ex
pression on his face was of as much cordiality
and pleasure as that upon the face of the other.
Then Hawbury greeted the ladies, and apolo
gized by stating that the Baron was a very old
and tried friend, whom he had not seen for
years ; which' intelligence surprised Mrs. Wil
loughby greatly, and brought a faint ray of
something like peace to poor Minnie.
The ladies were not imprisoned much lon
ger. Girasole threw a black look at Lord
Hawbury, and retreated. After a few moments'
chat Hawbury also retired, and made the Baron
go with him. And the Baron went without
any urging. He insisted, however, on shaking
hands heartily with both of the ladies, especial
ly Minnie, whose poor little hand he nearly
crushed into a pulp ; and to the latter he whis
pered the consoling assurance that he would
come to see her on the following day. After
which he followed his friend out.
Then he took Hawbury over to his own quar
ters, and Hawbury made himself very much at
home in a rocking-chair, which the Baron re
garded as the pride and joy and glory of his
room.
"By Jove!" cried Hawbury. "This is
deuced odd, do you know, old chap ; and I can't
imagine how the mischief you got here!"
This led to long explanations, and a long
conversation, which was protracted far into the
night, to the immense enjoyment of both of the
friends.
The Baron was, as Lord Hawbury had said,
an old friend. He had become acquainted with
him many years before upon the prairies of
America, near the Rocky Mountains. The
Baron had rescued him from Indians, by whom
he had been entrapped, and the two friends had
wandered far over those regions, enduring per
ils, fighting enemies, and roughing it in general.
This rough life had made each one's better na
ture visible to the other, and had led to the
formation of a friendship full of mutual appre
ciation of the other's best qualities. Now it is
just possible that if they had not known one
another, Hawbury might have thought the Bar
on a boor, and the Baron might have called
Hawbury a "thundering snob;" but as it was,
the possible boor and the possible snob each
thought the other one of the finest fellows in
the world.
"But you're not a Roman Catholic," said
Hawbury, as the Baron explained his position
among the Zouaves.
" What's the odds ? All's fish that comes to
their net. To get an office in the Church may
require a profession of faith, but we're not so
particular in the army. I take the oath, and
they let me go. Besides, I have Roman Cath
olic leanings."
" Roman Catholic leanings ?"
"Yes; I like the Pope. He's a fine man,
Sir — a fine man. I regard that man more like
a father than any thing else. There isn't one
of us but would lay down our lives for that old
gentleman."
" But you never go to confession, and you're
not a member of the Church."
"No; but then I'm a member of the army,
and I have long chats with some of the En
glish-speaking priests. There are some first-
rate fellows among them, too. Yes, Sir."
"I don't see much of a leaning in all that."
"Leaning? Why, it's all leaning. Why,
look here. I remember the time when I was
a grim, true-blue Puritan. Well, I ain't that
now. I used to think the Pope was the Beast
of the 'Pocalypse. Well, now I think he's the
finest old gentleman I ever saw. I didn't use
| to go to Catholic chapel. Well, now I'm there
j often, and I rather kind o' like it. Besides, I'm
i ready to argue with them all day and all night,
and what more can they expect from a fighting
man?
"You see, after our war I got my hand in, and
couldn't stop fighting. The Indians wouldn't
do — too much throat -cutting and savagery.
So I came over here, took a fancy to the Pope,
enlisted, was at Montana, fit there, got promot
ed, went home, couldn't stand it, and here I
am, back again ; though how long I'm going to
be liere is more'n I can tell. The fact is, I feel
| kind of onsettled."
"Why so?"
" Oh, it's an aggravating place, at the best."
"How?"
"There's such an everlasting waste of re
sources — such tarnation bad management.
Fact is, I've noted that it's always the case
wherever you trust ministers to do business.
They're sure to make a mess of it. I've known
lots of cases. Why, that's always the way with
us. Look at our stock-companies of any kind,
our religious societies, and our publishing houses
— wherever they get a ministerial committee,
the whole concern goes to blazes. I know that.
62
THE AMERICAN BARON.
Yes, Sir. Now that's the case here. Here's a
fine country. Why, round this here city there's
a country, Sir, that, if properly managed, might
beat any of our prairies — and look at it.
"Then, again, they complain of poverty.
Why, I can tell you, from my own observation,
that they've got enough capital locked up, lying
useless, in this here city, to regenerate it all,
and put it on its feet. This capital wants to be
utilized. It's been lying too long without pay
ing interest. It's time that it stopped. Why,
I tell you what it is, if they were to sell out
what they have here lying idle, and realize,
they'd get enough money to form an endow
ment fund for the Pope and his court so big
that his Holiness and every official in the place
might get salaries all round out of the interest
that would enable them to live like — well, I was
going to say like princes, but there's a lot of
princes in Rome that live so shabby that the
comparison ain't worth nothing.
" Why, see here, now," continued the Baron,
warming with his theme, which seemed to be a
congenial one; "just look here; see the posi
tion of this Roman court. They can actually
levy taxes on the whole world. Voluntary con
tributions, Sir, are a wonderful power. Think
of our missionary societies — our Sabbath-school
organizations in the States. Think of the wealth,
the activity, and the action of all our great char
itable, philanthropic, and religious bodies. What
supports them all? Voluntary contributions.
Now what I mean to say is this — I mean to say
that if a proper organization was arranged here,
they could get annual receipts from the whole
round globe that would make the Pope the
richest man on it. Why, in that case Roths
child wouldn't be a circumstance. The Pope
might go into banking himself, and control the
markets of the world. But no. There's a lot
of ministers here, and they haven't any head
for it. I wish they'd give me a chance. I'd
make things spin.
" Then, again, they've got other things here
that's ruining them. There's too much repres
sion, and that don't do for the immortal mind.
My idea is that every man was created free and
equal, and has a right to do just as he darn
pleases; but you can't beat that into the heads
of the governing class here. No, Sir. The
fact is, what Rome wants is a republic. It '11
come, too, some day. The great mistake of
his Holiness's life is that he didn't put himself
at the head of the movement in '48. He had
the chance, but he got frightened, and backed
down. Whereas if he had been a real, live
Yankee, now — if he had been like some of our
Western parsons — he'd have put himself on the
tiptop of the highest wave, and gone in. Why,
he could have had all Italy at his right hand by
this time, instead of having it all against him.
There's where he made his little mistake. If
I were Pope I'd fight the enemy with their own
weapons. I'd accept the situation. I'd go in
head over heels for a republic. I'd have Rome
the capital, myself president, Garibaldi com-
mander-in-chief, Mazzini secretary of state —
a man, Sir, that can lick even Bill Seward him
self in a regular, old-fashioned, tonguey, sub
tile, diplomatic note. And in that case, with
a few live men at the head of affairs, where
would Victor Emanuel be ? Emphatically, no
where !
"Why, Sir, "continued the Baron, "I'd en
gage to take this city as it is, and the office of
Pope, and run the whole Roman Catholic
Church, till it knocked out all opposition by
the simple and natural process of absorbing all
opponents. We want a republic here in Rome.
We want freedom, Sir. Where is the Church
making its greatest triumphs to-day? In the
States, Sir. If the Catholic Church made it
self free and liberal and go-ahead ; if it kept
up with the times; if it was imbued with the
spirit of progress, and pitched aside all old-
fashioned traditions — why, I tell you, Sir, it
would be a little the tallest organization on this
green globe of ours. Yes, Sir.'"
While Hawbury and the Baron were thus
engaged in high discourse, Mrs. Willoughby and
Minnie were engaged in discourses of a less
elevated but more engrossing character.
After the ladies had escaped they went up
stairs. Lady Dairy mple had retired some time
before to her own room, and they had the
apartment to themselves. Minnie flung herself
into a chair and looked bewildered ; Mrs. Wil
loughby took another chair opposite, and said
nothing for a long time.
"Well," said Minnie at last, "you needn't
be so cross, Kitty ; I didn't bring him here."
"Cross!" said her sister; "I'm not cross."
" Well, you're showing temper, at any rate ;
and you know you are, and I think it very
unkind in you, when I have so much to trouble
me."
" Why, really, Minnie darling, I don't know
what to say."
" Well, why don't you tell me what you
think of him, and all that sort of thing? You
might, you know."
" Think of him !" repeated Mrs. Willoughby,
elevating her eyebrows.
"Yes, think of him; and you needn't go
and make faces about him, at any rate."
" Did I make faces ? Well, dear," said Mrs.
Willoughby, patiently, "I'll tell you what I
think of him. I'm afraid of him."
" Well, then," said Minnie, in a tone of
triumph, " now you know how I feel. Sup
pose he saved your life, and then came in his
awfully boisterous way to see you ; and got
you alone, and began that way, and really
quite overwhelmed you, you know ; and then,
when you were really almost stunned, suppose
he went and proposed to you ? Now, then !"
And Minnie ended this question with the air
of one who could not be answered, and knew it.
" He's awful — perfectly awful ! " said Mrs.
Willoughby. "And the way he treated you!
It was so shocking."
"I know ; and that's just the horrid way he
THE AMERICAN BARON.
63
"LOOK AT THE MAN!"
always does," said Minnie, in a plaintive tone.
" I'm sure / don't know what to do with him.
And then he's Lord Hawbury's friend. So
what are we to do?"
"I don't know, unless we leave Rome at
once."
" But I don't want to leave Rome," said Min
nie. "I hate being chased away from places
by people — and they'd be sure to follow me,
you know — and I don't know what to do. And
oh, Kitty darling, I've just thought of some
thing. It would be so nice. What do you
think of it?"
"What is it?"
"Why, this. You know the Pope ?"
"No, I don't,"
" Oh, well, you've seen him, you know."
" Yes ; but what has he got to do with it ?"
" Why, I'll get you to take me, and I'll go
to him, and tell him all about it, and about all
these horrid men; and I'll ask him if he can't
do something or other to help me. They have
dispensations and things, you know, that the
Pope gives ; and I want him to let me dispense
with these awful people."
"Nonsense!" said
Mrs. Willoughby.
"I don't see any
nonsense in it at all.
I'm in earnest," said
Minnie; "and I think
it's a great shame."
"Nonsense!" said
her sister again ; "the
only thing is for you to
stay in your room."
"But I don't want
to stay in my room,
and I can't."
" Oh dear ! what
can I do with this
child ?" exclaimed
Mrs. Willoughby,
whose patience was
giving way.
Upon this Minnie
went over and kissed
her, and begged to be
forgiven ; and offered
to do any thing that
darling Kitty wanted
her to do.
After this they talk
ed a good deal over
their difficulty, but
without being able to
see their way out of it
more clearly.
That evening they
were walking up and
down the balcony of
the house. It was a
quadrangular edifice,
and they had a suit
of rooms on the sec
ond and third stories.
They were on the balcony of the third story,
which looked down into the court-yard below.
A fountain was in the middle of this, and the
moon was shining brightly.
The ladies were standing looking down, when
Minnie gently touched her sister's arm, and
whispered,
"Look at the man!"
"Where?"
"By the fountain."
Mrs. Willoughby looked, and saw the face
of a man who was standing on the other side
of the fountain. His head rose above it, and
his face was turned toward them. He evidently
did not know that he was seen, but was watch
ing the ladies, thinking that he himself was un
observed. The moment that Mrs. Willoughby
looked at the face she recognized it.
" Come in," said she to Minnie. And draw
ing her sister after her, she went into the house.
"I knew the face ; didn't you, Kitty dear?"
said Minnie. " It's so easy to tell it. It was
Scone Dacres. But what in the world does
he want ? Oh dear ! I hope fie won't bother
me."
THE AMERICAN BARON.
CHAPTER XVI.
THE INTRUDER.
JUDGING from the Baron's own words, it will
be perceived that his comprehension of the sit
uation was a little different from the actual fact.
His idea was that his last letter had been re
ceived by Minnie in England, whereupon she
had been seized with such an ungovernable
longing to see him that she at once set out for
Rome. She had not sent him any message, for
she wished to surprise him. She had done so
effectually. He was not merely surprised ; he
was overwhelmed, overjoyed, intoxicated with
joy. This was indeed kind, he thought — the
true part of a fond girl, who thus cast aside all
sill}' scruples, and followed the dictates of her
own noble and loving heart.
Now the fact that he had made a partial fail
ure of his first visit to his charmer did not in
the slightest degree disconcert him. He was
naturally joyous, hilarious, and sanguine. His
courage never faltered, nor could the brightness
of his soul be easily dimmed. A disappoint
ment on one day gave him but little trouble.
It was quickly thrown off, and then his buoyant
spirit looked forward for better fortune on the
next day. The little disappointment which he
had did not, therefore, prevent him from letting
his reason feast and his soul flow with Lord
Hawbury ; nor, when that festive season was
over, did it prevent him from indulging in the
brightest anticipations for the following day.
On the afternoon of that day, then, the Baron
directed his steps toward the hotel where his
charmer resided, his heart beating high, and the
generous blood mantling his cheek, and all that
sort of thing. But the Baron was not alone.
He had a companion, and this companion was
an acquaintance whom he had made that morn
ing. This companion was very tall, very thin,
very sallow, with long, straggling locks of rusty
black hair, white neck-tie, and a suit of rather
seedy black clothes. In fact, it was the very
stranger who had been arrested almost under
his eyes as a Garibaldian. His case had come
under the notice of the Baron, who had visit
ed him, and found him not to be a Garibaldian
at all, but a fellow-countryman in distress — in
short, no less a person than the Reverend Saul
Tozer, an esteemed clergyman, who had been
traveling through Europe for the benefit of his
health and the enlargement of his knowledge.
This fellow-countryman in distress had at once
been released by the Baron's influence ; and,
not content with giving him his liberty, he de
termined to take him under his protection, and
offered to introduce him to society ; all of which
generous offices were fully appreciated by the
grateful clergyman.
The Baron's steps were first directed toward
the place above mentioned, and the Reverend
Saul accompanied him. On reaching it he
knocked, and asked for Miss Fay.
"Not at home," was the reply.
" Oh, well," said he, " I'll go in and wait till
she comes home. Come along, parson, and
make yourself quite at home. Oh, never mind,
young man," he continued to the sen-ant; "I
know the way. Come along, parson." And
with these words he led the way into the re
ception-room, in which he had been before.
An elderly lady was seated there whom the
Baron recognized as having seen before. It was
Lady Dalrymple, whose name was, of course,
unknown to him, since he had only exchanged
a few words on his former visit. But as he was
naturally chivalrous, and as he was bent on mak
ing friends with all in the house, and as he was
also in a glorious state of good-will to the en
tire human race, he at once advanced to the
lady and made a low bow.
" How do you do, ma'am ?"
Lady Dalrymple bowed good-naturedly, for
she was good-natured to a fault.
"I suppose you remember me, ma'am," said
the Baron, in rather a loud voice ; for, as the
lady was elderly, he had a vague idea that she
was deaf — which impression, I may mention,
was altogether unfounded — "I suppose you re
member me, ma'am ? But I haven't had the
pleasure of a regular introduction to you; so
we'll waive ceremony, if you choose, and I'll in
troduce myself. I'm the Baron Atramonte, and
this is my very particular friend, the Reverend
Saul Tozer."
"I'm happy to make your acquaintance,"
said Lady Dalrymple, with a smile, and not
taking the Baron's offered hand — not, however,
from pride, but simply from laziness — for she
hated the bother, and didn't consider it good
taste.
"I called here, ma'am," said the Baron, with
out noticing that Lady Dalrymple had not in
troduced herself- — " I called here, ma'am, to see
my young friend, Miss Minnie Fay. I'm very
soi*ry that she ain't at home ; but since I am
here, I rather think I'll just set down and wait
for her. I s'pose you couldn't tell me, ma'am,
about how long it '11 be before she comes in?"
Lady Dalrymple hadn't any idea.
"All right," said the Baron; "the longer
she keeps me waiting, the more welcome she'll
be when she does come. That's all I've got to
say."
So the Baron handed a chair to the Rever
end Saul, and then selecting another for him
self in a convenient position, he ensconced him
self in it as snugly as possible, and sat in silence
for a few minutes. Lady Dalrymple took no
notice of him whatever, but appeared to be en
grossed with some trifle of needle-work.
After about five minutes the Baron resumed
the task of making himself agreeable.
He cleared his throat.
"Long in these parts, ma'am?" he asked.
" Not very long," said Lady Dalrymple, with
her \isual bland good-nature.
"A nice place this," continued the Baron.
"Yes."
"And do you keep your health, ma'am?" in
quired the Baron, with some anxiety.
THE AMERICAN BAROK
"Thanks," said Lady Dalrymple ; which ob
servation set the Baron's mind wondering what
she meant by that.
' ' Pray, ma'am, " said he, after a pause, ' ' might
you be any relation to a young lady friend of
mine that's staying here named Minnie Fay ?"
" A little," said Lady Dalrymple ; which re
mark set the Baron again wondering. And he
was about to return to the charge with another
and more direct question, when his attention
was arrested by the sound of footsteps on the
stairs ; so he sat bolt upright, and stared hard
at the door. There was the rustle of a dress.
The Baron rose. So did the Reverend Saul
Tozer. The lady appeared. It was not Minnie.
It was Mrs. Willoughby.
Now during the Baron's visit there had been
some excitement up stairs. The ladies had told
the servants that they were not at home to any
callers that day. They had found with con
sternation how carelessly the Baron had brushed
aside their little cobweb regulation, and had
heard his voice as he strove to keep up an easy
conversation with their aunt. Whereupon an
earnest debate arose. They felt that it was not
fair to leave their aunt alone with the Baron,
and that one of them should go to the rescue.
To Mrs. Willoughby's amazement, Minnie was
anxious to go. To this she utterly objected.
Minnie insisted, and Mrs. Willoughby was in
despair. In vain she reproached that most
whimsical of young ladies. In vain she remind
ed her of the Baron's rudeness on a former oc
casion. Minnie simply reminded her that the
Baron had saved her life. At last Mrs. Wil
loughby actually had to resort to entreaties,
and thus she persuaded Minnie not to go down.
So she went down herself, but in fear and trem
bling, for she did not know at what moment
her voluble and utterly unreliable sister might
take it into her head to follow her.
The Baron, who had risen, full of expecta
tion, stood looking at her, full of disappoint
ment, which was very strongly marked on his
face. Then he recollected that Minnie was
"not at home," and that he must wait till she
did get home. This thought, and the hope
that he would not now have long to wait,
brought back his friendly glow, and his calm
and his peace and his good-will toward the
whole human race, including the ladies in the
room. He therefore bowed very low, and, ad
vancing, he made an eifort to shake hands ;
but Mrs. Willoughby had already known the
dread pressure which the Baron gave, and
evaded him by a polite bow. Thereupon the
Baron introduced the Reverend Saul Tozer.
The Baron took out his watch, looked at
it, frowned, coughed, put it back, and then
drummed with his fingers on the arm of the
chair.
"Will it be long, ma'am, "asked the Baron,
"before Minnie gets back?"
" She is not out," said Mrs. Willoughby.
"Not out?"
"No."
E
" Why, the thundering fool of a servant went
and told me that she was not at home ! "
"She is at home," said Mrs. Willoughby,
sweetly.
" What ! at home !" cried the Baron. " And
does she know I'm here ?"
" She does."
"Then why in thunder don't she come
down ?" cried the Baron, wonderingly.
"Because she is indisposed."
"Indisposed?"
"Yes."
This was the information which Mrs. Wil
loughby had decided to give to the Baron. Min
nie had stipulated that his feelings should not
be hurt ; and this seemed to her to be the easi
est mode of dealing with him.
" Indisposed!" cried the Baron.
"Yes."
" Oh dear ! Oh, I hope, ma'am — I do hope,
ma'am, that she ain't very bad. Is it any thing
serious — or what ?"
" Not very serious ; she has to keep her room,
though."
" She ain't sick abed, I hope ?"
" Oh no — not so bad as that !"
" Oh dear ! it's all me, I know. I'm to
blame. She made this journey — the poor lit
tle pet ! — just to see me ; and the fatigue and
the excitement have all been too much. Oh, I
might have known it ! Oh, I remember now
how pale she looked yesterday ! Oh dear !
what '11 1 do if any thing happens to her ? Oh,
do tell me — is she better ? — did she pass a good
night ? — does she suffer any pain ? — can I do
any thing for her ? — will you take a little mes
sage from me to her ?"
" She is quite easy now, thanks," said Mrs.
Willoughby ; " but we have to keep her per
fectly quiet; the slightest excitement may be
dangerous."
Meanwhile the Reverend Saul had become
wearied with sitting dumb, and began to look
around for some suitable means of taking part
in the conversation. As the Baron had intro
duced him to society, he felt that it was his
duty to take some part so as to assert himself
both as a man, a scholar, and a clergyman.
So, as he found the Baron was monopolizing
Mrs. Willoughby, he gradually edged over till
he came within ear-shot of Lady Dalrymple,
and then began to work his way toward a con
versation.
"This, ma'am," he began, "is truly an in
teresting-spot."
Lady Dalrymple bowed.
" Yes, ma'am. "I've been for the past few
days surveying the ruins of antiquity. It is
truly a soul-stirring spectacle."
" So I have heard," remarked Lady Dalrym
ple, cheerfully.
" Every thing around us, ma'am," continued
the Reverend Saul, in a dismal voice, " is sub
ject to dissolution, or is actually dissolving.
How forcible air the words of the Psalmist :
' Our days air as the grass, or like the morn-
66
THE AMERICAN BARON.
ing flower ; when blasting winds sweep o'er the
vale, they wither in an hour.' Yes, ma'am, I
have this week stood in the Roman Forum.
The Coliseum, also, ma'am, is a wonderful
place. It was built by the Flavian emperors,
and when completed could hold eighty thousand
spectators seated, with about twenty thousand
standing. In hot weather these spectators
were protected from the rays of the sun by
means of awnings. It is a mighty fabric,
ma'am !"
" I should think so," said Lady Dalrymple.
"The arch of Titus, ma'am, is a fine ruin.
It was originally built by the emperor of that
name to commemorate the conquest of Jerusa
lem. The arch of Septimius Severus was built
by the Emperor of that name, and the arch of
Constantine was built by the emperor of that
name. They are all very remarkable struc
tures. "
"I'm charmed to hear you say so."
" It's true, ma'am ; but let me add, ma'am,
that the ruins of this ancient city do not offer
to my eyes a spectacle half so melancholy as
the great moral ruin which is presented by the
modern city. For, ma'am, when I look around,
what do I see ? I behold the Babylon of the
Apocalypse ! Pray, ma'am, have you ever re
flected much on that ?"
"Not to any great extent," said Lady Dal
rymple, who now began to feel bored, and
so arose to her feet. The Reverend Saul Tozer
was just getting on a full head of conversational
steam, and was just fairly under way, when this
sad and chilling occurrence took place. She
rose and bowed to the gentlemen, and began to
retreat.
All this time the Baron had been pouring
forth to Mrs. Willoughby his excited interroga
tories about Minnie's health, and had asked her
to take a message. This Mrs. Willoughby re
fused at first.
"Oh no!" said she; "it will really disturb
her too much. What she wants most is per
fect quiet. Her health is really very delicate,
and I am excessively anxious about her."
" But does she — does she — is she — can she
walk about her own room?" stammered the
Baron.
"A little," said Mrs. Willoughby. "Oh, I
hope in a few weeks she may be able to come
down. But the very greatest care and quiet are
needed, for she is in such a very delicate state
that we watch her night and day."
"A few weeks!" echoed the Baron, in dis
may. "Watch her night and day!"
" Oh, you know, it is the only chance for her
recovery. She is so delicate."
The Baron looked at Mrs. Willoughby with
a pale face, upon which there was real suffer
ing and real misery.
" Can't I do something ?" he gasped. " Won't
yon take a message to her? It ought to do her
good. Perhaps she thinks I'm neglecting her.
Perhaps she thinks I ain't here enough. Tell
her I'm ready to give up my office, and even |
my title of nobility, and come and live here, if
it '11 be any comfort to her."
" Oh, really, Sir, you quite mistake her," said
Mrs. Willoughby. " It has no reference to you
whatever. It's a nervous affection, accompa
nied with general debility and neuralgia."
" Oh no, you don't know her," said the Bar
on, incredulously. " I know her. I know what
it is. But she walks, don't she ?"
"Yes, a little — just across the room; still,
even that is too much. She is very, very weak,
and must be quite kept free from excitement.
Even the excitement of your visits is bad for
her. Her pulse is — is — always — accelerated —
and — she — I — Oh, dear me !"
While Mrs. Willoughby had been making up
this last sentence she was startled by a rustling
on the stairs. It was the rustle of a female's
dress. An awful thought occurred to her, which
distracted her, and confused her in the middle
of her sentence, and made her scarce able to
articulate her words. And as she spoke them
the rustle drew nearer, and she heard the sound
of feet descending the stairs, until at last the
footsteps approached the door, and Mrs. Wil
loughby, to her utter horror, saw Minnie herself.
Now as to the Baron, in the course of his
animated conversation with Mrs. Willoughby,
and in his excited entreaties to her to carry a
message up to the invalid, he had turned round
with his back to the door. It was about the
time that Lady Dalrymple had begun to beat a
retreat. As she advanced the Baron saw her,
and, with his usual politeness, moved ever so
far to one side, bowing low as he did so. Lady
Dalrymple passed, the Baron raised himself,
and as Mrs. Willoughby was yet speaking, and
had just reached the exclamation which con
cluded her last remark, he was astounded by
the sudden appearance of Minnie herself at the
door.
The effect of this sudden appearance was
overwhelming. Mrs. Willoughby stood thun
der-struck, and the Baron utterly bewildered.
The latter recovered his faculties first. It was
just as Lady Dalrymple was passing out. With
a bound he sprang toward Minnie, and caught
her in his arms, uttering a series of inarticulate
cries.
" Oh, Min ! and you did come down, did
you? And you couldn't stay up there, could
you? I wanted to send a message to you.
Poor little Min! you're so weak. Is it any
thing serious? Oh, my darling little Min!
But sit down on this here seat. Don't stand ;
you're too weak. Why didn't you send, and
I'd have carried you down? But tell me now,
honest, wasn't it me that brought this on?
Never mind, I'll never leave you again."
This is the style which the gallant Baron
adopted to express his sentiments concerning
Minnie ; and the result was that he succeeded
in giving utterance to words that were quite as
incoherent as any that Minnie herself, in her
most rambling moods, had ever uttered.
The Baron now gave himself up to joy. He
THE AMERICAN BARON.
67
took no notice of any body. He sat by Min
nie's side on a sofa, and openly held her hand.
The Reverend Saul Tozer looked on with an
approving smile, and surveyed the scene like a
father. Mrs. Willoughby's soul was on fire
with indignation at Minnie's folly and the Bar
on's impudence. She was also indignant that
her little conventional falsehoods had been sud
denly disproved by the act of Minnie herself.
Yet she did not know what to say, and so she
went to a chair, and flung herself into it in
fierce anger.
As for Minnie herself, she had come down
to the Baron, and appeared rather to enjoy the
situation. She talked about Rome and Naples,
and asked him all about himself, and the Baron
explained his whole situation down to the mi
nutest detail. She was utterly indifferent to
her sister. Once or twice the Baron made a
move to go, but did not succeed. He finally
settled himself down apparently for the rest of
the day; but Mrs. Willoughbyat last interposed.
She walked forward. She took Minnie's hand,
and spoke to her in a tone which she but seldom
used.
"You shall not stay here any longer!" she
cried. "Come."
And Minnie obeyed at once.
The Baron insisted on a tender adieu. Mrs.
Willoughby stood by, with flashing eyes and
heaving breast.
Minnie followed her up stairs in silence.
"You silly child!" she cried. "Are you
mad? What made you come down? You
broke your promise !"
" Well — well — I couldn't help it, and he is so
deliciously rude ; and do you know, Kitty dear
est, I really begin to feel quite fond of him."
"Now listen, child. You shall never see
him again."
"I don't see why not," whimpered Minnie.
"And I'm going to telegraph to papa. I
wouldn't have the responsibility of you another
week for the world."
"Now, Kitty, you're horrid."
CHAPTER XVII.
THE BARON'S ASSAULTS.
ON the eventful afternoon when the Baron
had effected an entrance into the heart of the
enemy's country, another caller had come there
— one equally intent and equally determined,
but not quite so aggressive. This was the
Count Girasole. The same answer was given
to him which had been given to the Baron, but
with far different effect. The Baron had care
lessly brushed the slight obstacle aside. To the
Count it was an impenetrable barrier. It was
a bitter disappointment, too ; for he had been
filled with the brightest hopes and expectations
by the reception with which he had met on his
last visit. That reception had made him be
lieve that they had changed their sentiments
and their attitude toward him, and that for the
future he would be received in the same fashion.
He had determined, therefore, to make the most
of this favorable change, and so he at once re
peated his call. This time, however, his hopes
were crushed. What made it worse, he had
seen the entrance of the Baron and the Reverend
Saul, and knew by this that instead of being a
favored mortal in the eyes of these ladies, he
was really, in their estimation, placed below
these comparative strangers. By the language
of Lord Hawbury on his previous call, he knew
that the acquaintance of the Baron with Mrs.
Willoughby was but recent.
The disappointment of the Count filled him
with rage, and revived all his old feelings and
plans and projects. The Count was not one
who could suffer in silence. He was a crafty,
wily, subtle, scheming Italian, whose fertile
brain was full of plans to achieve his desires,
and who preferred to accomplish his aims by a
tortuous path, rather than by a straight one.
This repulse revived old projects, and he took
his departure with several little schemes in his
mind, some of which, at least, were destined to
bear fruit afterward.
On the following day the Baron called once
more. The ladies in the mean time had talked
over the situation, but were unable to see what
they were to do with a man who insisted on
forcing his way into their house. Their treat
ment would have been easy enough if it had
not been for Minnie. She insisted that they
should not be unkind to him. He had saved
her life, she said, and she could not treat him.
with rudeness. Lady Dalrymple was in despair,
and Mrs. Willoughby at her wit's end, while
Ethel, to whom the circumstance was made
known, was roused by it from her sadness, and
tried to remonstrate with Minnie. All her ef
forts, however, were as vain as those of her
friends. Minnie could not be induced to take
any decided stand. She insisted on seeing him
whenever he called, on the ground that it would
be unkind not to.
"And will you insist on seeing Girasole also?"
asked Mrs. Willoughby.
" I don't know. I'm awfully sorry for him,"
said Minnie.
"Well, then, Captain Kirby will be here
next. Of course you will see him ?"
"I suppose so," said Minnie, resignedly.
" And how long do you think this sort of
thing can go on? They'll meet, and blood
will he shed."
" Oh dear ! I'm afraid so."
" Then I'm not going to allow it. I've tele
graphed to papa. He'll see whether you are
going to have your own way or not."
"I'm sure I don't see what dear papa can
do."
"He won't let you see those horrid men."
" He won't be cruel enough to lock me up in
the house. I do wish he would come and take
me away. I don't want them. They're all
horrid."
68
THE AMERICAN BARON.
-UI.N. IT 8 ME I
" This last one — this Gunn — is the most ter
rible man I ever saw."
" Oh, Kitty dearest ! How can you say so ?
Why, his rudeness and violence are perfectly
irresistible. He's charming. He bullies one
so deliciously."
Mrs. Willoughby at this turned away in de
spair.
Minnie's very peculiar situation was certainly
one which required a speedy change. The
forced entrance of the Baron had thrown con
sternation into the family. Ethel herself had
been roused, and took a part in the debate.
She began to see Minnie in a new light, and
Hawbury's attention to her began to assume
the appearance of a very mournful joke. To
her mind Minnie was now the subject of despe
rate attention from five men.
Thus :
1. Lord Hawbnry.
2. Count Girasole.
3. Scone Dacres.
4. Baron Atramonte.
5. Captain Kirby, of whom Mrs. Willoughby
had just told her.
And of these, four
had saved her life,
and consequently had
the strongest possible
claims on her.
And the only sat
isfaction which Ethel
could gain out of this
was the thought that
Hawbury, at least,
had not saved Min
nie's life.
And now to pro
ceed.
The Baron called,
as has been said, on
the following day.
This time he did not
bring the Reverend
Saul with him. He
wished to see Minnie
alone, and felt the
presence of third per
sons to be rather un
pleasant.
On reaching the
place he was told, as
before, that the ladies
were not at home.
Now the Baron re
membered that on the
preceding day the
servant had said the
same, while all the
time the ladies were
home. He was char
itably inclined to sup
pose that it was a mis
take, and not a delib
erate lie ; and, as he
was in a frame of
good-will to mankind, he adopted this first
theory.
"All right, young man," said he; "but as
you lied yesterday — under a mistake — I prefer
seeing for myself to-day."
So the Baron brushed by the servant, and
went in. He entered the room. No one was
there. He waited a little while,. and thought.
He was too impatient to wait long. He could
not trust these lying servants. So he determ
ined to try for himself. Her room was up
stairs, somewhere in the story above.
So he went out of the room, and up the stairs,
until his head was on a level with the floor of
the story above. Then he called :
" Mm !"
No answer.
" MIN !" in a louder voice.
No answer.
"MIN! it's ME!" still louder.
No answer.
" MIN!" a perfect yell.
At this last shout there was a response. One
of the doors opened, and a lady made her ap
pearance, while at two other doors appeared
THE AMERICAN BARON.
69
two maids. The lady was young and beauti
ful, and her face was stern, and her dark eyes
looked indignantly toward the Baron.
" Who are you ?" she asked, abruptly ; " and
what do you want ?"
"Me? I'm the Baron Atramonte; and I
want Min. Don't you know where she is ?"
"Who?"
"Min."
"Min?" asked the other, in amazement.
" Yes. My Min — Minnie, you know. Min
nie Fay."
At this the lady looked at the Baron with
utter horror.
"I want her."
" She's not at home/' said the lady.
"Well, really, it's too bad. I must see her.'
Is she out?"
"Yes."
' ' Really ? Honor bright now ?"
The lady retired and shut the door.
"Well, darn it all, you needn't be so pep
pery," muttered the Baron. " I didn't say any
thing. I only asked a civil question. Out, hey ?
Well, she must be this time. If she'd been in,
she'd have made her appearance. Well, I'd best
go out and hunt her up. They don't seem to
me altogether so cordial as I'd like to have
them. They're just a leetle too 'ristocratic."
With these observations to himself, the Bar
on descended the stairs, and made his way to
the door. Here he threw an engaging smile
upon the servant, and made a remark which set
the other on the broad grin for the remainder
of the day. After this the Baron took his de
parture.
The Baron this time went to some stables,
and reappeared in a short time mounted upon
a gallant steed, and careering down the Corso.
In due time he reached the Piazza del Popolo,
and then he ascended the Pincian Hill. Here
he rode about for some time, and finally his
perseverance was rewarded. He was looking
down from the summit of the hill upon the Pi
azza below, when he caught sight of a barouche,
in which were three ladies. One of these sat on
the front seat, and her white face and short gold
en hair seemed to indicate to him the one he
sought.
In an instant he put spurs to his horse, and
rode down the hill as quick as possible, to the
great alarm of the crowds who were going up
and down. In a short time he had caught up
with the carriage. He was right. It was the
right one, and Minnie was there, together with
Lady Dalrymple and Mrs. Willoughby. The
ladies, on learning of his approach, exhibited no
emotion. They were prepared for this, and re
signed. They had determined that Minnie
should have no more interviews with him in
doors ; and since they could not imprison her
altogether, they would have to submit for the
present to his advances. But they were rapidly
becoming desperate.
Lord Hawbury was riding by the carriage as
the Baron came up.
" Hallo !" said he to the former. "How do ?
and how are you all ? Why, I've been hunting
all over creation. Well, Minnie, how goes it ?
Feel lively? That's right. Keep out in the
open air. Take all the exercise you can, and
eat as hard as you can. You live too quiet as
a general thing, and want to knock around
more. But we'll fix all that, won't we, Min,
before a month of Sundays ?"
The advent of the Baron in this manner, and
his familiar address to Minnie, filled Hawbury
with amazement. He had been surprised at
finding him with the ladies on the previous day,
but there was nothing in his demeanor which
was at all remarkable. Now, however, he no
ticed the very great familiarity of his tone and
manner toward Minnie, and was naturally
amazed. The Baron had not confided to him
his secret, and he could not understand the
cause of such intimacy between the representa
tives of such different classes. He therefore list
ened with inexpressible astonishment to the Bar
on's language, and to Minnie's artless replies.
Minnie was sitting on the front seat of the
barouche, and was alone in that seat. As the
gentlemen rode on each side of the carriage
her face was turned toward them. Hawbury
rode back, so that he was beside Lady Dalrym
ple ; but the Baron rode forward, on the other
side, so as to bring himself as near to Minnie
as possible. The Baron was exceedingly hap
py. His happiness showed itself in the flush
of his face, in the glow of his eyes, and in the
general exuberance and all-embracing swell of
his manner. His voice was loud, his gestures
demonstrative, and his remarks were addressed
by turns to each one in the company. The
others soon gave up the attempt to talk, and
left it all to the Baron. Lady Dalrymple and
Mrs. Willoughby exchanged glances of despair.
Hawbury still looked on in surprise, while Min
nie remained perfectly calm, perfectly self-pos
sessed, and conversed with her usual simplicity.
As the party thus rode on they met a horse
man, who threw a rapid glance over all of them.
It was Girasole. The ladies bowed, and Mrs.
Willoughby wished that he had come a little
before, so that he could have taken the place
beside the carriage where the Baron now was.
But the place was now appropriated, and there
was no chance for the Count. Girasole threw a
dark look over them, which rested more partic
ularly on Hawbury. Hawbury nodded lightly
at the Count, and didn't appear to take any
further notice of him. All this took up but a
few moments, and the Count passed on.
Shortly after they met another horseman.
He sat erect, pale, sad, with a solemn, earnest
glow in his melancholy eyes. Minnie's back
was turned toward him, so that she could not
see his face, but his eyes were fixed upon Mrs.
Willoughby. She looked back at him and
bowed, as did also Lady Dalrymple. He took
off his hat, and the carriage rolled past. Then
he turned and looked after it, bareheaded, and
Minnie caught sight of him, and smiled and
70
THE AMERICAN BARON.
bowed. And then in a few moments more the
crowd swallowed up Scone Dacres.
The Baron thus enjoyed himself in a large,
exuberant fashion, and monopolized the con
versation in a large, exuberant way. He out
did himself. He confided to the ladies his
plans for the regeneration of the Roman Church
and the Roman State. He told stories of his
adventures in the Rocky Mountains. He men
tioned the state of his finances, and his pros
pects for the future. He was as open, as free,
and as communicative as if he had been at home,
with fond sisters and admiring brothers around
him. The ladies were disgusted at it all ; and
by the ladies I mean only Mrs. Willoughby and
Lady Dalrymple. For Minnie was not — she
actually listened in delight. It was not con
ventional. Very well. Neither was the Bar
on. And for that matter, neither was she.
He was a child of nature. So was she. His
rudeness, his aggressiveness, his noise, his talk
ativeness, his egotism, his confidences about
himself — all these did not make him so very
disagreeable to her as to her sister and aunt.
So Minnie treated the Baron with the utmost
complaisance, and Hawbury was surprised, and
Mrs. Willoughby and Lady Dalrymple were dis
gusted ; but the Baron was delighted, and his
soul was filled with perfect joy. Too soon for
.him was this drive over. But the end came, and
they reached the hoteL Hawbury left them, but
the Baron lingered. The spot was too sweet, the
charm too dear — he could not tear himself away.
In fact, he actually followed the ladies into
the house.
"I think 111 just make myself comfortable
in here, Min, till you come down," said the
Baron. And with these words he walked into
the reception-room, where he selected a place
on a sofa, and composed himself to wait pa
tiently for Minnie to come down.
So he waited, and waited, and waited — but
Minnie did not come. At last he grew impa
tient. He walked out, and up the stairs, and
listened.
He heard ladies' voices.
He spoke.
"Min!"
No answer.
"MIN!" louder.
No answer.
« MIN ! H ALLO-0-O-O ! "
No answer.
" MIN!" a perfect shout.
At this a door was opened violently, and
Mrs. Willoughby walked out. Her cheeks
were flushed, and her eyes glanced fire.
"Sir," she said, "this is intolerable! You
must be intoxicated. Go away at once, or I
shall certainly have you turned out of the house."
And saying this she went back, shut the
door, and locked it.
The Baron was thunder-struck. He had
never been treated so in his life. He was
cut to the heart. His feelings were deeply
wounded.
"Darn it!" he muttered. " What's all this
for? I ain't been doing any thing."
He walked out very thoughtfully. He couldn't
understand it at all. He was troubled for some
time. But at last his buoyant spirit rose su
perior to this, temporary depression. To-mor
row would explain all, he thought. Yes, to
morrow would make it all right. To-morrow
he would see Min, and get her to tell him what
in thunder the row was. She'd have to tell,
for he could never find out. So he made up
his mind to keep his soul in patience.
That evening Hawbury was over at the Bar
on's quarters, by special invitation, and the
Baron decided to ask his advice. So in the
course of the evening, while in the full, easy,
and confidential mood that arises out of social
intercourse, he told Hawbury his whole story —
beginning with the account of his first meeting
with Minnie, and his rescue of her, and her ac
ceptance of him, down to this very day, when
he had been so terribly snubbed by Mrs. Wil
loughby. To all this Hawbury listened in amaze
ment. It was completely new to him. He won
dered particularly to find another man who had
saved the life of this quiet, timid little girl.
The Baron asked his advice, but Hawbury
declined giving any. He said he couldn't ad
vise any man in a love-affair. Every man must
trust to himself. No one's advice could be of
any avail. Hawbury, in fact, was puzzled, but
he said the best he could. The Baron himself
was fully of Hawbury's opinion. He swore that
it was truth, and declared the man that followed
another's advice in a love-affair was a " darned
fool that didn't deserve to win his gal."
There followed a general conversation on
things of a different kind. The Baron again
discoursed on church and state. He then ex
hibited some curiosities. Among other things
a skull. He used it to hold his tobacco. He
declared that it was the skull of an ancient
Roman. On the inside was a paper pasted
there, on which he had written the following:
"Oh, I'm the skull of a Roman bold
That fit in the ancient war;
From East to West I bore the flag
Of S. P. Q. and R.
"In East and West, and North and South,
We made the nations fear us —
Both Nebuchadnezzar and Hannibal,
And Pharaoh too, and Pyrrhua
"We took their statutes from the Greeks,
And lots of manuscripts too;
We set adrift on his world-wide tramp
The original wandering Jew.
"But at last the beggarly Dutchman came,
With his lager and sauerkraut;
And wherever that beggarly Dutchman went
He made a terrible rout
" Wo ist der Deutscher's Vaterland ?
Is it near the ocean wild ?
Is it where the feathery palm-trees grow?
Not thore, not there, my child.
"But it's somewhere down around the Rhine;
And now that Bismarck's come,
Down goes Napoleon to the ground,
And away goes the Pope from Rome!"
THE AMERICAN BARON.
71
CHAPTER XVIII.
"HE SAVED MY LIFE."
"I CAN'T bear this any longer!" exclaimed
Mrs. Willoughby. "Here you are getting
into all sorts of difficulties, each one worse
than the other. I'm sure I don't see why you
should. You're very quiet, Minnie dearest,
hut you have more unpleasant adventures than
any person I ever heard of. You're run away
with on horseback, you're shipwrecked, you're
swept down a precipice by an avalanche, and
you fall into the crater of a burning volcano.
Every time there is some horrid man who saves
you, and then proposes. As for you, you ac
cept them all with equal readiness, one after
another, and what is worse, you won't give any
of them up. I've asked you explicitly which
of them you'll give up, and you actually refuse
to say. My dear child, what are you thinking
of? You can't have them all. You can't have
any of them. None of them are agreeable to
your family. They're horrid. What are you
going to do? Oh, how I wish you had dear
mamma to take care of you! But she is in a
better world. And here is poor dear papa who
can't come. How shocked he would be if he
knew all. What is worst, here is that dread
ful American savage, who is gradually killing
me. He certainly will be my death. What
am I to do, dear? Can't you possibly show a
little sense yourself — only a little, dear — and
have some consideration for your poor sister?
Eve% Ethel worries about you, though she has
troubles of her own, poor darling ; and aunty is
really quite ill with anxiety. What are we go
ing to do ? I know one thing. I'm not going
to put up with it. My mind is made up. I'll
leave Rome at once, and go home and tell
papa."
"Well, you needn't scold so," said Minnie.
" It's my trouble. I can't help it. They would
come. I'm sure /don't know what to do."
"Well, you needn't be so awfully kind to
them all. That's what encourages them so.
It's no use for me to try to keep them away if
you make them all so welcome. Now there's
that dreadful Italian. I'm positive he's going
to get up some unpleasant plot. These Italians
are so very revengeful. And he thinks you're
so fond of him, and I'm so opposed. And he's
right, too. You always act as if you're fond
of him, and all the rest. As to that terrible
American savage, I'm afraid to think of him ;
I positively am."
" Well, you needn't be so awfully unkind to
him. He saved my life."
" That's no reason why he should deprive me
of mine, which he will do if he goes on so much
longer."
"You were very, very rude to him, Kitty,"
said Minnie, severely, "and very, very un
kind — "
"I intended to be so."
"I really felt like crying, and running out
and explaining things."
"I know you did, and ran back and locked the
door. Oh, you wretched little silly goose, what
am I ever to do with such a child as you are !
You're really not a bit better than a baby. "
This conversation took place on the day fol
lowing the Baron's last eventful call. Poor
Mrs. Willoughby was driven to desperation, and
lay awake all night, trying to think of some
plan to baffle the enemy, but was unsuccessful ;
and so she tried once more to have some influ
ence over Minnie by a remonstrance as sharp
as she could give.
" He's an American savage. I believe he's
an Indian."
" I'm sure I don't see any thing savage in
him. He's as gentle and as kind as he can be.
And he's so awfully fond of me."
"Think how he burst in here, forcing his
way in, and taking possession of the house.
And then poor dear aunty ! Oh, how she was
shocked and horrified !"
" It's because he is so awfully fond of me, and
was so perfectly crazy to see me."
"And then, just as I was beginning to per
suade him to go away quietly, to think of you
coming down !"
"Well, I couldn't bear to have him so sad,
when he saved my life, and so I just thought
I'd show myself, so as to put him at ease. "
"A pretty way to show yourself — to let a
great, horrid man treat you so."
"Well, that's what they all do," said Minnie,
plaintively. " I'm sure / can't help it."
"Oh dear! was there ever such a child!
Why, Minnie darling, you must know that such
things are very, very ill-bred, and very, very
indelicate and unrefined. And then, think how
he came forcing himself upon us when we were
driving. Couldn't he see that he wasn't want
ed ? No, he's a savage. And then, how he
kept giving us all a history of his life. Every
body could hear him, and people stared so that
it was really quite shocking."
"Oh, that's because he is so very, very frank.
He has none of the deceit of society, you know,
Kitty darling."
"Deceit of society! I should think not.
Only think how he acted yesterday — forcing
his way in and rushing up stairs. Why, it's
actually quite frightful. He's like a madman.
We will have to keep all the doors locked, and
send for the police. Why, do you know, Ethel
says that he was here before, running about
and shouting in the same way : ' Min ! ' ' Min ! '
' Min ! ' — that's what the horrid wretch calls you
— 'Min! it's me.' 'Come, Min!'"
At this Minnie burst into a peal of merry,
musical laughter, and laughed on till the tears
came to her eyes. Her sister looked more dis
gusted than ever.
" He's such a boy," said Minnie ; " he's just
like a boy. He's so awfully funny. If I'm a
child, he's a big boy, and the awfullest, funniest
boy I ever saw. And then he's so fond of me.
Why, he worships me. Oh, it's awfully nice."
' ' A boy ! A beast, you mean — a horrid sav-
72
THE AMERICAN BARON.
age. What can I do ? I must send for a po
liceman. I'll certainly have the doors all locked.
And then we'll all be prisoners.''
"Well, then, it '11 all be your own fault, for
/don't want to have any doors locked."
"Oh dear!" sighed her sister.
"Well, I don't. And I think you're very
unkind."
"Why, you silly child, he'd come here some
day, carry you off', and make you marry him."
"Well, I do wish he would," said Minnie,
gravely. " I wish somebody would, for then it
would put a stop to all this worry, and I really
don't know what else ever will. Do you, now,
Kitty darling?"
Mrs. Willoughby turned away with a gesture
of despair.
An hour or two after some letters were brought
in, one of which was addressed to
Miss FAT,
Paste Restante,
Roma.
Minnie opened this, and looked over it with
a troubled air. Then she spoke to her sister,
and they both went off" to Minnie's room.
"Who do you think this is from ?" she asked.
"Oh, I don't know! Of course it's some
more trouble."
" It's from Captain Kirby."
"Oh, of course! And of course he's here
in Borne ?"
"No, he isn't."
. "What! Not yet?"
" No ; but he wrote this from London. He
has been to the house, and learned that we had
gone to Italy. He says he has sent off letters
to me, directed to every city in Italy, so that I
may be sure to get it. Isn't that good of him ?"
"Well?" asked Mrs. Willoughby, repressing
an exclamation of vexation.
" Well, he says that in three days he will
leave, and go first to Rome, as he thinks we
will be most likely to be there this season.
And so, you see, he's coming on ; and he will
be here in three days, you know."
"Minnie," said her sister, after some mo
ments' solemn thought.
"Well, Kitty darling?"
" Do you ever think ?"
"I don't know."
' ' Would you like one of these gentlemen of
yours to blow one of the others' brains out, or
stab him, or any thing of that sort ?"
"How shocking you are, Kitty dear! What
a dreadful question !"
"Well, understand me now. One of them
will do that. There will be trouble, and your
name will be associated with it."
" Well," said Minnie, "I know who won't be
shot."
"Who?"
"Why, Rufus K. Gunn," said she, in the fun
ny, prim way in which she always pronounced
that name. " If he finds it out, he'll drive all
the others away."
" And would you like that ?"
" Well, you know, he's awfully fond of me,
and he's so like a boy : and if I'm such a child,
I could do better with a man, you know, that's
like a boy, you know, than — than — "
" Nonsense ! He's a madman, and you're a
simpleton, you little goose."
"Well, then, we must be well suited to one
another," said Minnie.
"Now, child, listen," said Mrs. Willonghby,
firmly. "I intend to put a stop to this. I
have made up my mind positively to leave
Rome, and take you home to papa. I'll tell
him all about it, put you under his care, and
have no more responsibility with you. I think
he'd better send you back to school. I've been
too gentle. You need a firm hand. I'll be
firm for a few days, till you can go to papa.
You need not begin to cry. It's for your own
good. If you're indulged any more, you'll sim
ply go to ruin."
Mrs. Willoughby's tone was different from
usual, and Minnie was impressed by it. She
saw that her sister was resolved. So she stole
up to her and twined her arms about her and
kissed her.
"There, there," said her sister, kissing her
again, "don't look so sad, Minnie darling. It's
for your own good. We must go away, or else
you'll have another of those dreadful people.
You must trust to me now, dearest, and not in
terfere with me in any way. "
"Well, well, you mustn't be unkind to poor
Rufus K. Gunn," said Minnie.
" Unkind ? Why, we won't be any thing to
him at all."
"And 'am I never to — to — see him again?"
"No!" said her sister, firmly.
Minnie started, and looked at Mrs. Willough
by, and saw in her face a fixed resolution.
"No, never!" repeated Mrs. Willoughby.
" I am going to take you back to England. I'm
afraid to take any railroad or steamboat. I'll
hire a carriage, and we'll all go in a quiet way
to Florence. Then we can take the railroad
to Leghorn, and go home by the way of Mar
seilles. No one will know that we've gone
away. They'll think we have gone on an ex
cursion. Now we'll go out driving this morn
ing, and this afternoon we must keep the outer
door locked, and not let any one in. I suppose
there is no danger of meeting him in the morn
ing. He must be on duty then."
" But mayn't I see him at all before we go ?"
"No!"
"Just once — only once?"
"No, not once. You've seen that horrid
man for the last time."
Minnie again looked at her sister, and again
read her resolution in her face. She turned
away, her head dropped, a sob escaped from
her, and then she burst into tears.
Mrs. Willoughby left the room.
THE AMERICAN BARON.
73
CHAPTER XIX.
JEALOUSY.
LORD HAWBURY had come to Rome for the
sole purpose of watching over his friend Scone
Dacres. But he had not found it so easy to
do so. His friend kept by himself more than
he used to, and for several days Hawbury had
seen nothing of him. Once while with the la
dies he had met him, and noticed the sadness
and the gloom of his brow. He saw by this
that he was still a prey to those feelings the
exhibition of which had alarmed him at Naples,
and made him resolve to accompany him here.
A few days afterward, while Hawbury was
in his room, his friend entered. Hawbury arose
and greeted him with unfeigned joy.
"Well, old man," he said, "you've kept
yourself close, too. What have you been do
ing with yourself? I've only had one glimpse
of you for an age. Doing Rome, hey ? An
tiquities, arts, churches, palaces, and all that sort
of thing, I suppose. Come now, old boy, sit
down and give an account of yourself. Have a
weed ? Here's Bass in prime order. Light up,
my dear fellow, and let me look at you as you
compose your manly form for a friendly smoke.
And don't speak till you feel inclined.''
Dacres took his seat with a melancholy smile,
and selecting a cigar, lighted it, and smoked in
silence for some time.
"Who was that Zouave fellow?" he asked
at length : " the fellow that I saw riding by
the carriage the other day ?"
" That — oh, an old friend of mine. He's an
American named Gunn. He's joined the Papal
Zouaves from some whim, and a deuced good
thing it is for them to get hold of such a man.
I happened to call one day, and found him with
the ladies."
" The ladies — ah!" and Dacres's eyes lighted
up with a bad, hard light. "I suppose he's
another of those precious cavaliers — -the scum
of all lands — that dance attendance on my
charming wife."
"Oh, see here now, my dear fellow, really
now," said Hawbury, " none of that, you know.
This fellow is a friend of mine, and one of the
best fellows I ever saw. You'd like him, old
chap. He'd suit you."
" Yes, and suit my wife better," said Dacres,
bitterly.
"Oh, come now, really, my dear boy, you're
completely out. He don't know your wife at
all. It's the other one, you know. Don't be
jealous, now, if I tell you."
"Jealous !"
" Yes. I know your weakness, yon know ;
but this is an old aft'air. I don't want to vio
late confidence, but — "
Dacres looked hard at his friend and breathed
heavily. He was evidently much excited.
" But what ?" he said, hoarsely.
" Well, you know, it's an old affair. It's the
young one, you know — Miss Fay. He rather
affects her, you know. That's about it."
"Miss Fay?"
" Yes ; your child-angel, you know. But it's
an older affair than yours ; it is, really ; so don't
be giving way, man. Besides, his claims on her
are as great as yours; yes, greater too. By
Jove ! "
" Miss Fay ! Oh, is that all ?" said Dacres,
who, with a sigh of infinite relief, shook off all
his late excitement, and became cool once
more.
Hawbury noted this very thoughtfully.
"You see," said Dacres, "that terrible wife
of mine is so cursedly beautiful and fascinating,
and so infernally fond of admiration, that she
keeps no end of fellows tagging at her heels.
And so I didn't know but that this was some
new admirer. Oh, she's a deep one ! Her new
style, which she has been cultivating for ten
years, has made her look like an angel of light.
Why, there's the very light of heaven in her
eyes, and in her face there is nothing, I swear,
but gentleness and purity and peace. Oh, had
she but been what she now seems ! Oh, if even
now I could but believe this, I would even now
fling my memories to the winds, and I'd lie
down in the dust and let her trample on me, if
she would only give me that tender and gentle
love that now lurks in her face. Good Heav
ens ! can such a change be possible ? No ; it's
impossible ! It can't be ! Don't I know her ?
Can't I remember her? Is my memory all a
dream? No, it's real; and it's marked deep
by this scar that I wear. Never till that scar
is obliterated can that woman change."
Dacres had been speaking, as he often did
now, half to himself; and as he ended he rubbed
his hand over the place where the scar lay, as
though to soothe the inflammation that arose
from the rush of angry blood to his head.
" Well, dear boy, I can only say I wish from
my heart that her nature was like her face.
She's no favorite of mine, for your story has
made me look on her with your eyes, and I
never have spoken to her except in the most
distant way ; but I must say I think her face
has in it a good deal of that gentleness which
you mention. Miss Fay treats her quite like
an elder sister, and is deuced fond of her, too.
I can see that. So she can't be very fiendish
to her. Like loves like, you know, and the one
that the child-angel loves ought to be a little
of an angel herself, oughtn't she ?"
Dacres was silent for a long time.
"There's that confounded Italian," said he,
"dangling forever at her heels — the devil that
saved her life. He must be her accepted lover,
you know. He goes out riding beside the car
riage."
"Well, really, my dear fellow, she doesn't
seem overjoyed by his attentions."
" Oh, that's her art. She's so infernally
deep. Do you think she'd let the world see
her feelings ? Never. Slimy, Sir, and cold
and subtle and venomous and treacherous — a
beautiful serpent. Aha ! isn't that the way to
hit her off? Yes, a beautiful, malignant, ven-
74
THE AMERICAN BARON.
omous serpent, with fascination in her eyes, and
death and anguish in her bite. But she shall
find out yet that others are not without power.
Confound her!"
" Well, now, by Jove ! old boy, I think the
very best thing you can do is to go away some
where, and get rid of these troubles."
" Go away ! Can 1 go away from my own
thoughts ? Hawbury, the trouble is in my own
heart. I must keep near her. There's that
Italian devil. He shall not have her. I'll
watch them, as I have watched them, till I find
a chance for revenge."
"You have watched them, then?" asked
Hawbury, in great surprise.
"Yes, both of them. I've seen the Ital
ian prowling about where she lives. I've seen
her on her balcony, evidently watching for
him."
"But have you seen any thing more? This
is only your fancy."
"Fancy! Didn't I see her herself stand
ing on the balcony looking down. I was con
cealed by the shadow of a fountain, and she
couldn't see me. She turned her face, and I
saw it in that soft, sweet, gentle beauty which
she has cultivated so wonderfully. I swear it
seemed like the face of an angel, and I could
have worshiped it. If she could have seen
my face in that thick shadow she would have
thought I was an adorer of hers, like the Ital
ian — ha, ha! — instead of a pursuer, and an
enemy."
" Well, 111 be hanged if I can tell myself
which you are, old boy ; but, at any rate, I'm
glad to be able to state that your trouble will
soon be over."
"How's that?"
" She's going away. "
"Going away!"
"Yes."
" She ! going away ! where ?"
"Back to England."
"Back to England! why, she's just come
here. What's that for ?"
"I don't know. I only know they're all
going home. Well, you know, holy week's
over, and there is no object for them to stay
longer."
"Going away! going away!" replied Da-
cres, slowly. "Who told you?"
"Miss Fay."
"Oh, I don't believe it."
"There's no doubt about it, my dear boy.
Miss Fay told me explicitly. She said they
were going in a carriage by the way of Civita
Castellana."
" What are they going that way for? What
nonsense ! I don't believe it. "
"Oh, it's a fact. Besides, they evidently
don't want it to be known."
"What's that?" asked Dacres, eagerly.
"I say the}" don't seem to want it to be
known. Miss Fay told me in her childish way,
and I saw that Mrs. Willoughby looked vexed,
and tried to stop her."
" Tried to stop her ! Ah! Who were there ?
Were you calling ?"
"Oh no — it was yesterday morning. I was
riding, and, to my surprise, met them. They
were driving — Mrs. Willoughby and Miss Fay,
you know — so I chatted with them a few mo
ments, or rather with Miss Fay, and hoped I
would see them again soon, at some fete or
other, when she told me this."
'And my wife tried to stop her?"
'Yes."
' And looked vexed ?"
' Yes."
' Then it was some secret of hers. She has
some reason for keeping dark. The other has
none. Aha! don't I understand her? She
wants to keep it from me. She knows you're my
friend, and was vexed that you should know.
Aha! she dreads my presence. She knows
I'm on her track. She wants to get away
with her Italian — away from my sight. Aha !
the tables are turned at last. Aha ! my lady.
Now we'll see. Now take your Italian and fly,
and see how far you can get away from me.
Take him, and see if you can hold him. Aha .'
my angel face, my mild, soft eyes of love, but
devil's heart — can not I understand it all ? I
see through it. I've watched you. Wait till
you see Scone Dacres on your track !"
" What's that ? You don't really mean it ?"
cried Hawbury.
"Yes, I do."
"Will you follow her?"
"Yes, I will."
" What for ? For a vague fancy of your jeal
ous mind?"
" It isn't a fancy ; it's a certainty. I've seen
the Italian dogging her, dodging about her
house, and riding with her. I've seen her
looking very much as if she were expecting him
at her balcony. Is all that nothing ? She's seen
me, and feels conscience-stricken, and longs to
get away where she may be free from the ter
ror of my presence. But I'll track her. I'll
strike at her — at her heart, too ; for I will strike
through the Italian."
"By Jove!"
"I will, I swear!" cried Dacres, gloomily.
"You're mad, Dacres. You imagine all
this. You're like a madman in a dream."
" It's no dream. I'll follow her. I'll track
her."
"Then, by Jove, you'll have to take me with
you, old boy ! I see you're not fit to take care
of yourself. I'll have to go and keep you from
harm."
"Yon won't keep me from harm, old chap,"
said Dacres, more gently ; " but I'd be glad if
you would go. So come along."
"I will, by Jove!"
THE AMERICAN BARON.
(I WATCHED HIM."
CHAPTER XX.
THE BARON'S WOES.
DACRES was not the only excited visitor
that Hawbuiy had that day. Before its close
another made his appearance in the person of
the Baron.
"Well, my noble friend," cried Hawbury
— "my Baron bold — how goes it? But, by
Jove ! what's the matter, my boy ? Your brow
deep scars of thunder have intrenched, and
care sits on your faded cheek. Pour forth the
mournful tale. I'll sympathize."
"I swear it's too almighty bad!" cried the
Baron.
"What?"
"The way I'm getting humbugged."
"Humbugged! Who's been humbugging
you ?"
"Darn me if I know; and that's the worst
of it by a thundering sight."
"Well, my dear fellow, if I can help you,
you'd better let me know what it's all about."
"Why, Minnie ; that's the row. There ain't
another thing on this green earth that would
trouble me for five seconds."
" Minnie ? Oh ! And what has happened —
a lover's quarrel ?"
"Not a quarrel. She's all right."
"What is it, then?"
"Why, she's disappeared."
" Disappeared ! What do you mean by
that ?"
"Darn me if I know. I only know this,
that they keep their place bolted and barred,
and they've muffled the bell, and there's no
servant to be seen, and I can't find out any
thing about them. And it's too almighty bad.
Now isn't it ?"
"It's deuced odd, too — queer, by Jove! I
don't understand. Are you sure they're all
locked up?"
" Course I am."
" And no servants ?"
"Not a darned servant."
" Did you ask the concierge ?"
" Course I did ; and crossed his palm, too.
But he didn't give me any satisfaction."
"What did he say?"
"Why, he said they were at home, for they
had been out in the morning, and had got back
again. Well, after that I went back and near
ly knocked the door down. And that was no
good ; I didn't get a word. The concierge
swore they were in, and they wouldn't so much
as answer me. Now I call that too almighty
hard, and I'd like to know what in thunder
they all mean by it."
"By Jove ! odd, too."
"Well, you know, I thought after a while
that it would be all explained the next day ; so
I went home and waited, and came back the
next afternoon. I tried it over again. Same
result. I spoke to the concierge again, and
he swore again that they were all in. They
had been out in the morning, he said, and look
ed well. They had come home by noon, and
had gone to their rooms. Well, I really did
start the door that time, but didn't get any an
swer for my pains."
"By Jove!"
"Well, I was pretty hard up, I tell you.
But I wasn't going to give up. So I staid
there, and began a siege. 1 crossed the con
cierge's palm again, and was in and out all
night. Toward morning I took a nap in his
chair. He thought it was some government
business or other, and assisted me all he could.
I didn't see any thing at all. though, except an
infernal Italian — a fellow that came calling
the first day I was there, and worked himself
in between me and Min. He was prowling
about there, with another fellow, and stared
hard at me. I watched him, and said noth
ing, for I wanted to find out his little game.
He's up to something, I swear. When he
saw I was on the ground, though, he beat a
retreat.
"Well, I staid all night, and the next
morning watched again. I didn't knock. It
wasn't a bit of use — not a darned bit.
"Well, about nine o'clock the door opened,
and 1 saw some one looking out very cautious
ly. In a minute I was standing before her,
and held out my hand to shake hers. It was
the old lady. But she didn't shake hands.
She looked at me quite, coolly.
'"Good-morning, ma'am,' said I, in quite
a winning voice. 'Good-morning, ma'am.'
" ' Good-morning,' she said.
" 'I come to see Minnie,' said I.
" 'To see Minnie!' said she; and then she
told me she Wasn't up.
" ' Ain't up ?' said I ; ' and it so bright and
early ! Why, what's got her? Well, you just
76
THE AMERICAN BARON.
go and tell her I'm here, and I'll just step in
side and wait till she comes down,' said I.
"But the old lady didn't budge.
"'I'm not a servant,' she said, very stiff;
' I'm her aunt, and her guardian, and I allow
no messages to pass between her and strange
gentlemen.'
"'Strange gentlemen!' I cried. 'Why,
ain't I engaged to her ?'
" 'I don't know you,' says she.
" ' Wasn't I introduced to you ?' says I.
" 'No,' says she ; 'I don't know you.'
Let me inform you, Sir, that if you repeat it,
you will be handed over to the police. The
police would certainly have been called yester
day had we not wished to avoid hurting your
feelings. We now find that you have no feel
ings to hurt.'
"'Very well, ma'am,' says I; 'these are
your views; but as you are not Minnie, I don't
accept them. I won't retire from the field till
I hear a command to that effect from Minnie
herself. I allow no relatives to stand between
me and my love. Show me Minnie, and let me
BUT I SAVED JIEE LITE.
" 'But I'm engaged to Minnie,' says I.
" 'I don't recognize you,' says she. 'The
family know nothing about you ; and my niece
is a silly girl, who is going back to her father,
who will probably send her to school.'
" ' But I saved her life,' says I.
"'That's very possible,' says she; 'many
persons have done so; yet that gives you no
right to annoy her ; and you shall not annoy
her. Your engagement is an absurdity. The
child herself is an absurdity. You are an ab
surdity. Was it not you who was creating
such a frightful disturbance here yesterday?
hear what she has to say. That's all I ask,
and that's fair and square.'
" 'You shall not see her at all,' says the old
lady, quite mild ; ' not at all. You must not
come again, for you will not be admitted. Po
lice will be here to put yon out if you attempt
to force an entrance as you did before. '
" 'Force an entrance !' I cried.
" 'Yes,' she said, 'force an entrance. You
did so, and you filled the whole house with
your snouts. Is that to be borne ? Not by us,
Sir. And now go, and don't disturb us any
more.'
THE AMERICAN BARON.
77
" Well, I'll be darned if I ever felt so cut up
in my life. The old lady was perfectly calm
and cool ; wasn't a bit scared — though there
was no reason why she should be. She just
gave it to me that way. But when she ac
cused me of forcing an entrance and kicking
up a row, I was struck all of a heap and
couldn't say a word. Me force an entrance !
Me kick up a row ! And in Minnie's house !
Why, the old woman's mad!
" Well, the old lady shut the door in my
face, and I walked off; and I've been ever
since trying to understand it, but I'll be darned
if I can make head or tail of it. The only
thing I see is that they're all keeping Minnie
locked up away from me. They don't like me,
though why they don't I can't see ; for I'm as
good as any body, and I've been particular
about being civil to all of them. Still they
don't like me, and they see that Minnie does,
and they're trying to break up the engagement.
But by the living jingo!" and the Baron
clinched a good-sized and very sinewy fist,
which he brought down hard on the table — " by
the living jingo, they'll find they can't come it
over me ! No,. Sir !"
" Is she fond of you — Miss Fay, I mean ?"
"Fond! Course she is. She dotes on me."
"Are you sure?"
"Sure! As sure as I am of my own ex
istence. Why, the way she looks at me is
enough ! She has a look of helpless trust, an
innocent confidence, a tender, child-like faith
and love, and a beseeching, pleading, implor
ing way that tells me she is mine through and
through."
Hawbury was a little surprised. He thought
he had heard something like that before.
" Oh, well," said he, " that's the chief thing,
you know. If you're sure of the girl's affec
tions, the battle's half won."
' ' Half won ! Ain't it all won ?"
" Well, not exactly. You see, with us En
glish, there are ever so many considerations."
" But with us Americans there is only one
consideration, and that is, Do you love me?
Still, if her relatives are particular about dol
lars, I can foot up as many thousands as her
old man, I dare say ; and then, if they care for
rank, why, I'm a Baron !"
"And what's more, old boy," said Hawbury,
earnestly, " if they wanted a valiant, stout, true,
honest, loyal soul, they needn't go further than
Rnfus K. Gunn, Baron de Atramonte."
The Baron's face flushed.
"Hawbury," said he, "that's good in you.
We've tried one another, haven't we ? You're
a brick ! And I don't need you to tell me what
you think of me. But if you could get a word
into the ear of that cantankerous old lady, and
just let her know what you know about me, it
might move her. You see you're after her
style, and I'm not ; and she can't see any thing
but a man's manner, which, after all, varies in
all countries. . Now if you could speak a word
for me, Hawbury — "
"By Jove! my dear fellow, I'd be glad to
do so — I swear I would ; but you don't appear
to know that I won't have the chance. They're
all going to leave Rome to-morrow morning."
The Baron started as though he had been shot.
" What !': he cried, hoarsely. " What's that ?
Leave Rome ?"
"Yes."
"And to-morrow morning?"
"Yes ; Miss Fay told me herself — "
" Miss Fay told you herself! By Heaven !
What do they mean by that ?" And the Baron
sat trembling with excitement.
"Well, the holy week's over."
"Darn it all, that's got nothing to do with it !
It's me ! They're trying to get her from me !
How are they going? Do you know?"
" They are going in a carriage by the way of
Civita Castellana."
"In a carriage by the way of Civita* Castel
lana ! Darn that old idiot of a woman ! what's
she up to now? If she's running away from
me, she'll wish herself back before she gets far
on that road. Why, there's an infernal nest
of brigands there that call themselves Garibal-
dians ; and, by thunder, the woman's crazy !
They'll be seized and held to ransom — per
haps worse. Heavens ! I'll go mad ! I'll run
and tell them. But no ; they won't see me.
What '11 1 do ? And Minnie ! I can't give her
up. She can't give me up. She's a poor, trem
bling little creature ; her whole life hangs on
mine. Separation from me would kill her.
Poor little girl ! Separation ! By thunder,
they shall never separate us ! What devil
makes the old woman go by that infernal road ?
Brigands all the way ! But I'll go after them :
I'll follow them. They'll find it almighty hard
work to keep her from me ! I'll see her, by
thunder ! and I'll get her out of their clutches !
I swear I will! I'll bring her back here to
Rome, and I'll get the Pope himself to bind her
to me with a knot that all the old women under
heaven can never loosen!"
"What! You're going? By Jove ! that's
odd, for I'm going with a friend on the same
road."
"Good again! Three cheers! And you'll
see the old woman, and speak a good word for
me?"
"If I see her and get a chance, I certainly
will, by Jove!"
CHAPTER XXL
AN EVENTFUL JOUKNEY.
ON the day following two carriages rolled
out of Rome, and took the road toward Flor
ence by the way of Civita Castellana. One
carriage held four ladies ; the other one was
occupied by four lady's-maids and the luggage
of the party.
It was early morning, and over the wide
Civmpagna there still hung mists, which were
dissipated gradually as the sun arose. As they
78
THE AMERICAN BARON.
went on the day advanced, and with the de
parting mists there opened up a wide view.
On either side extended the desolate Cam-
pagna, over which passed lines of ruined aque
ducts on their way from the hills to the city.
Here and there crumbling ruins arose above
the plain — some ancient, others medieval, none
modern. Before them, in the distance, arose
the Apennines, among which were, here and
there, visible the white outlines of some villa or
hamlet.
For mile after mile they drove on ; and the
drive soon proved very monotonous. It was
nothing but one long and unvarying plain, with
this only change, that every mile brought them
nearer to the mountains. As the mountains
were their only hope, they all looked forward
eagerly to the time when they would arrive
there and wind along the road among them.
Formerly Mrs. Willoughby alone had been
the confidante of Minnie's secret, but the events
of the past few days had disclosed most of her
for this imaginary neglect. So she sought to
make the journey as pleasant as possible by
cheerful remarks and lively observations. None
of these things, however, produced any effect
upon the attitude of Minnie. She sat there, with
unalterable sweetness and unvarying patience,
just like a holy martyr, who freely forgave all
her enemies, and was praying for those who
had despitefully used her.
The exciting events consequent upon the Bar
on's appearance, and his sudden revelation in the
role of Minnie's lover, had exercised a strong
and varied effect upon all ; but upon one its
result was wholly beneficial, and this was Ethel.
It was so startling and so unexpected that it
had roused her from her gloom, and given her
something to think of. The Baron's debut in
their parlor had been narrated to her over and
over by each of the three who had witnessed it,
and each gave the narrative her own coloring.
Lady Dalrymple's account was humorous ; Mrs.
Willoughby's indignant ; Minnie's sentimental.
THE PROCESSION ACROSS THE OAMPAQNA.
troubles to the other ladies also, at least as far as
the general outlines were concerned. The con
sequence was, that they all knew perfectly well
the reason why they were traveling in this way,
and Minnie knew that they all knew it. Yet
this unpleasant consciousness did not in the
least interfere with the sweetness of her temper
and the gentleness of her manner. She sat there,
with a meek smile and a resigned air, as though
the only part now left her in life was the pa
tient endurance of her unmerited wrongs. She
blamed no one ; she made no complaint ; yet
there was in her attitude something so touch
ing, so clinging, so pathetic, so forlorn, and in
her face something so sweet, so sad, so re
proachful, and so piteous, that she enforced
sympathy ; and each one began to have a half-
guilty fear that Minnie had been wronged by
her. Especially did Mrs. Willoughby feel this.
She feared that she had neglected the artless
and simple-minded child ; she feared that she
had not been sufficiently thoughtful about her ;
and now longed to do something to make amends
Out of all these Ethel gained a fourth idea,
compounded of these three, which again blend
ed with another, and an original one of her own,
gained from a personal observation of the Bar
on, whose appearance on the stairs and impa
tient summons for "Min" were very vividly
impressed on her memory. In addition to this
there was the memory of that day on which
they endeavored to fight off the enemy.
That was, indeed, a memorable day, and was
now alluded to by them all as the day of the
siege. It was not without difficulty that they
had withstood Minnie's earnest protestations,
and intrenched themselves. But Mrs. Wil
loughby was obdurate, and Minnie's tears, which
flowed freely, were unavailing.
Then there came the first knock of the im
patient and aggressive visitor, followed by oth
ers in swift succession, and in ever-increasing
power. Every knock went to Minnie's heart.
It excited an unlimited amount of sympathy for
the one who had saved her life, and was now
excluded from her door. But as the knocks
THE AMERICAN BARON.
grew violent and imperative, and Minnie grew
sad and pitiful, the other ladies grew indignant.
Lady Dalrymple was on the point of sending
oft' for the police, and only Minnie's frantic en
treaties prevented this. At last the door seemed
almost beaten in, and their feelings underwent
a change. They were convinced that he was
mad, or else intoxicated. Of the madness of
love they did not think. Once convinced that
he was mad, they became terrified. The maids
all hid themselves. None of them now would
venture out even to call the police. They ex
pected that the concierge would interpose, but
in vain. The concierge was bribed.
After a very eventful day night came. They
heard footsteps pacing up and down, and knew
that it was their tormentor. Minnie's heart
again melted with tender pity for the man
whose love for her had turned his head, and
she begged to be allowed to speak to him. But
this was not permitted. So she went to bed
and fell asleep. So, in process of time, did the
others, and the night passed without any trou
ble. Then morning came, and there was a
debate as to who should confront the enemy.
There was no noise, but they knew that he was
there. At last Lady Dalrymple summoned up
her energies, and went forth to do battle. The
result has already been described in the words
of the bold Baron himself.
But even this great victory did not reassure
the ladies. Dreading another visit, they hur
ried away to a hotel, leaving the maids to follow
with the luggage as soon as possible. On the
following morning they had left the city.
Events so very exciting as these had pro
duced a very natural effect upon the mind of
Ethel. They had thrown her thoughts out of
their old groove, and fixed them in a new one.
Besides, the fact that she was actually leaving
the man who had caused her so much sorrow
was already a partial relief. She had dreaded
meeting him so much that she had been forced
to keep herself a prisoner. A deep grief still
remained in her heart ; but, at any rate, there
was now some pleasure to be felt, if only of a
superficial kind.
As for Mrs. Willoughby, in spite of her self-
reproach about her purely imaginary neglect of
Minnie, she felt such an extraordinary relief
that it affected all her nature. The others
might feel fatigue from the journey. Not she.
She was willing to continue the journey for an
indefinite period, so long as she had the sweet
consciousness that she was bearing Minnie far
ther and farther away from the grasp of " that
horrid man." The consequence was, that she
was lively, lovely, brilliant, cheerful, and alto
gether delightful. She was as tender to Min
nie as a mother could be. She was lavish in
her promises of what she would do for her.
She chatted gayly with Ethel about a thousand
things, and was delighted to find that Ethel re
ciprocated. She rallied Lady Dalrymple on
her silence, and congratulated her over and
over, in spite of Minnie's frowns, on the suc
cess of her generalship. And so at last the
weary Campagna was traversed, and the two
carriages began to ascend among the mountains.
Several other travelers were passing over that
Campagna road, and in the same direction.
They were not near enough for their faces to
be discerned, but the ladies could look back and
see the signs of their presence. First there was
a carriage with two men, and about two miles
behind another carriage with two other men ;
while behind these, again, there rode a solitary
horseman, who was gradually gaining on the
other travelers.
Now, if it had been possible for Mrs. Wil
loughby to look back and discern the faces of
the travelers who were moving along the road
behind her, what a sudden overturn there would
have been in her feelings, and what a blight
would have fallen upon her spirits ! But Mrs.
Willoughby remained in the most blissful ig
norance of the persons of these travelers, and
so was able to maintain the sunshine of her
soul.
At length there came over that sunny soul
the first cloud.
The solitary horseman, who had been riding
behind, had overtaken the different carriages.
The first carriage contained Lord Hawbury
and Scone Dacres. As the horseman passed,
he recognized them with a careless nod and
smile.
Scone Dacres grasped Lord Hawbury's arm.
"Did you see him?" he cried. "The Ital
ian ! I thought so ! What do you say now ?
Wasn't I right ?"
" By Jove !" cried Lord Hawbury.
Whereupon Dacres relapsed into silence, sit
ting upright, glaring after the horseman, cher
ishing in his gloomy soul the darkest and most
vengeful thoughts.
The horseman rode on further, and overtook
the next carriage. In this there were two
men, one in the uniform of the Papal Zouaves,
the other in rusty black. He turned toward
these, and greeted them with the same nod and
smile.
" Do you see that man, parson ?" said the
Baron to his companion. "Do you recognize
him?"
"No."
"Well, you saw him at Minnie's house. He
came in."
"No, he didn't."
"Didn't he? No. By thunder, it wasn't
that time. Well, at any rate, that man, I be
lieve, is at the bottom of the row. It's my be
lief that he's trying to cut me out, and he'll find
he's got a hard row to hoe before he succeeds
in that project."
And with these words the Baron sat glaring
after the Italian, with something in his eye that
resembled faintly the fierce glance of Scone
Dacres.
The Italian rode on. A few miles further
were the two carriages. Minnie and her sister
were sitting on the front seats, and saw the
80
THE AMERICAN BARON.
stranger as he advanced. He soon came near
enough to be distinguished, and Mrs. Willough-
by recognized Girasole.
Her surprise was so great that she uttered
an exclamation of terror, which startled the
other ladies, and made them all look in that
direction.
" How very odd !" said Ethel, thoughtfully.
" And now I suppose you'll all go and say
that I brought him too," said Minnie. "That's
always the way you do. You never seem to
think that I may be innocent. You always
blame me for every little mite of a thing that
may happen."
No one made any remark, and there was si
lence in the carriage as the stranger approached.
The ladies bowed somewhat coolly, except Min
nie, who threw upon him the most imploring
look that could possibly be sent from human
eyes, and the Italian's impressible nature thrill
ed before those beseeching, pleading, earnest,
unfathomable, tender, helpless, innocent orbs.
Removing his hat, he bowed low.
"I haf not been awara," he said, politely,
in his broken English, "that youar ladysippa's
bin intend to travalla. Ees eet not subito in-
tenzion ?"
Mrs. Willoughby made a polite response of
a general character, the Italian paused a mo
ment to drink in deep draughts from Minnie's
great beseeching eyes that were fixed upon his,
and then, with a low bow, he passed on.
"I believe I'm losing my senses," said Mrs.
Willoughby.
" Why, Kitty darling ?" asked Minnie.
" I don't know how it is, but I actually trem-
"bled when that man came up, and I haven't got
over it yet."
"I'm sure I don't see why," said Minnie.
" You're always imagining things, though. Now
isn't she, Ethel dearest ?"
" Well, really, I don't see much in the Count
to make one tremble. I suppose poor dear
Kitty has been too much agitated lately, and
it's her poor nerves."
" I have my lavender, Kitty dear," said Lady
Dalrymple. "Won't you take it? Or would
you prefer valerian ?"
"Thanks, much, but I do not need it," said
Mrs. Willoughby. "I suppose it will pass off."
"I'm sure the poor Count never did any
body any harm," said Minnie, plaintively ; "so
you needn't all abuse him so — unless you're
all angry at him for saving my life. I remem
ber a time when you all thought very different
ly, and all praised him up, no end."
" Really, Minnie darling, I have nothing
against the Count, only once he was a little too
intrusive ; but he seems to have got over that ;
and if he'll only be nice and quiet and proper,
I'm sure I've nothing to say against him."
They drove on for some time, and at length
reached Civita Castellana. Here they drove
up to the hotel, and the ladies got out and went
up to their apartments. They had three rooms
up stairs, two of which looked out into the street,
while the third was in the rear. At the front
windows was a balcony.
The ladies now disrobed themselves, and
their maids assisted them to perform the duties
of a very simple toilet. Mrs. Willoughby 's was
first finished. So she walked over to the win
dow, and looked out into the street.
It was not a very interesting place, nor was
there much to be seen ; but she took a lazy,
languid interest in the sight which met her eyes.
There were the two carriages. The horses
were being led to water. Around the carriages
was a motley crowd, composed of the poor, the
maimed, the halt, the blind, forming that realm
of beggars which from immemorial ages has
flourished in Italy. With these was intermin
gled a crowd of ducks, geese, goats, pigs, and
ill-looking, mangy, snarling curs.
Upon these Mrs. Willoughby looked for some
time, when at length her ears were arrested by
the roll of wheels down the street. A carriage
was approaching, in which there were two trav
elers. One hasty glance sufficed, and she turned
her attention once more to the ducks, geese,
goats, dogs, and beggars. In a few minutes the
crowd was scattered by the newly-arrived car
riage. It stopped. A man jumped out. For
a moment he looked up, staring hard at the
windows. That moment was enough. Mrs.
Willoughby had recognized him.
She rushed away from the windows. Lady
Dalrymple and Ethel were in this room, and
Minnie in the one beyond. All were startled
by Mrs. Willoughby 's exclamation, and still
more by her looks.
"Oh !" she cried.
"What ?" cried they. " What is it ?"
" He's there ! He's there !"
" Who ? who ?" they cried, in alarm.
"That horrid man!"
Lady Dalrymple and Ethel looked at one an
other in utter horror.
As for Minnie, she burst into the room,
peeped out of the windows, saw " that horrid
man," then ran back, then sat down, then
jumped up, and then burst into a peal of
the merriest laughter that ever was heard from
her.
"Oh, I'm so glad! I'm so glad!" she ex
claimed. "Oh, it's so awfully funny. Oh, I'm
so glad ! Oh, Kitty darling, don't, please don't,
look so cross. Oh, ple-e-e-e-e-e-e-ase don't,
Kitty darling. You make me laugh worse. It's
so awfully funny!"
But while Minnie laughed thus, the others
looked at each other in still greater consterna
tion, and for some time there was not one of
them who knew what to say.
But Lady Dulrymple again threw herself in
the gap.
" You need not feel at all nervous, my dears,"
said she, gravely. " I do not think that this
person can give us any trouble. He certainly
can not intrude upon us in these apartments,
and on the highway, you know, it will be quite
as difficult for him to hold any communication
THE AMERICAN BARON.
81
with us. So I really don't see any cause for
alarm on your part, nor do I see why dear
Minnie should exhibit such delight."
These words brought comfort to Ethel and
Mrs. Willoughby. They at once perceived their
truth. To force himself into their presence in
a public hotel was, of course, impossible, even
for one so reckless as he seemed to be ; and on
the road he could not trouble them in any way,
since he would have to drive before them or
behind them.
At Lady Dalrymple's reference to herself,
Minnie looked up with a bright smile.
"You're awfully cross with me, aunty dar
ling," she said; "but I forgive you. Only I
can't help laughing, you know, to see how
frightened you all are at poor Rufus K. Gunn.
And, Kitty dearest, oh how you did run away
from the window ! It was awfully funny, you
know."
Not long after the arrival of the Baron and
his friends another carriage drove up. None
of the ladies were at the window, and so they
did not see the easy nonchalance of Hawbury
as he lounged into the house, or the stern face
of Scone Dacres as he strode before him.
"AS FOE DAlj* A1EE— POUF ! 1)EKB 18 NONE."
CHAPTER XXII.
ADVICE REJECTED.
DURING dinner the ladies conversed freely
about " that horrid man," wondering what plan
he would adopt to try to effect an entrance
among them. They were convinced that some
such attempt would be made, and the servants
of the inn who waited on them were strictly
charged to see that no one disturbed them.
However, their dinner was not iuterruoted and
F
after it was over they began to think of retiring,
so as to leave at an early hour on the following
morning. Minnie had already taken her de
parture, and the others were thinking of follow
ing her example, when a knock came at the door.
All started. One of the maids went to the
door, and found a servant there who brought a
message from the Baron Atramonte. He wished
to speak to the ladies on business of the most
urgent importance. At this confirmation of
their expectations the ladies looked at one an
other with a smile mingled with vexation, and
Lady Dalrymple at once sent word that they
could not possibly see him.
But the Baron was not to be put off. In a
few moments the servant came back again, and
brought another message, of a still more urgent
character, in which the Baron entreated them
to grant him this interview, and assured them
that it was a matter of life and death.
" He's beginning to be more and more vio
lent," said Lady Dalrymple. "Well, dears,"
she added, resignedly, "in my opinion it will
be better to see him, and have done with him.
If we do not, I'm afraid he will pester us fur
ther. I will see him. You had better retire
to your own apartments. "
Upon this she sent down an invitation to the
Baron to come up, and the ladies retreated to
their rooms.
The Baron entered, and, as usual, offered to
shake hands — an offer which, as usual, Lady
Dalrymple did not accept. He then looked
earnestly all round the room, and gave a sigh.
He evidently had expected to see Minnie, and
was disappointed. Lady Dalrymple marked
the glance, and the expression which followed.
"Well, ma'am," said he, as he seated him
self near to Lady Dalrymple, " I said that the
business I wanted to speak about was import
ant, and that it was a matter of life and death.
I assure you that it is. But before I tell it I
want to say something about the row in Rome.
I have reason to understand that I caused a lit
tle annoyance to you all. If I did. I'm sure I
didn't intend it. I'm sorry. There ! Let's
say no more about it. 'Tain't often that I say
I'm sorry, but I say so now. Conditionally,
though — that is, if I reallv did annoy any body."
"Well, Sir?"
" Well, ma'am — about the business I came
for. You have made a sudden decision to take
this journey. I want to know, ma'am, if you
made any inquiries about this road before start
ing?"
" This road ? No, certainly not. "
"I thought so," said the Baron. "Well,
ma'am, I've reason to believe that it's some
what unsafe."
"Unsafe?"
"Yes ; particularly for ladies."
" And why ?"
"Why, ma'am, the country is in a disordered
state, and near the boundary line it swarms
with brigands. They call themselves Garibal-
dians, but between you and me, ma'am, they're
THE AMERICAN BAROX.
neither more nor less than robbers. You see,
along the boundary it is convenient for them
to dodge to one side or the other, and where
the road runs there are often crowds of them.
Now our papal government means well, but it
ain't got power to keep down these brigands. It
would like to, but it can't. You see, the scum
of all Italy gather along the borders, because
they know we are weak ; and so there it is. "
"And you think there is danger on this
road ?" said Lady Dalrymple, looking keenly at
him.
" I do, ma'am."
" Pray have you heard of any recent acts of
violence along the road ?"
"No, ma'am."
"Then what reason have you for supposing
that there is any particular danger now?"
"A friend of mine told me so, ma'am."
" But do not people use the road ? Are not
carriages constantly passing and repassing? Is
it likely that if it were unsafe there would be no
acts of violence ? Yet you say there have been
none. "
"Not of late, ma'am."
" But it is of late, and of the present time,
that we are speaking."
"I can only say, ma'am, that the road is con
sidered very dangerous."
" Who considers it so ?"
" If you had made inquiries at Rome, ma'am,
you would have found this out, and never would
have thought of this road."
"And you advise us not to travel it?"
"I do, ma'am."
" What would you advise us to do ?"
" I would advise you, ma'am, most earnestly,
to turn and go back to Rome, and leave by an
other route."
Lady Dalrymple looked at him, and a slight
smile quivered on her lips.
" I see, ma'am, that for some reason or other
you doubt my word. Would you put confi
dence in it if another person were to confirm
what I have said ?"
" That depends entirely upon who the other
person may be."
"The person I mean is Lord Hawbury."
" Lord Hawbury ? Indeed !" said Lady Dal
rymple, in some surprise. " But he's in Rome."
"No, ma'am, he's not. He's here — in this
hotel."
"In this hotel? Here?"
"Yes, ma'am."
" I'm sure I should like to see him very
much, and hear what he says about it."
" I'll go and get him, then," said the Baron,
and, rising briskly, he left the room.
In a short time he returned with Hawbury.
Lady Dalrymple expressed surprise to see him,
and Hawbury •explained that he was travel
ing with a friend. Lady Dalrymple, of course,
thought this a fresh proof of his infatuation
about Minnie, and wondered how he could be
a friend to a man whom she considered as Min
nie's persecutor and tormentor.
The Baron at once proceeded to explain how
the matter stood, and to ask Hawbury's opin
ion.
"Yes," said Lady Dalrymple, "I should re
ally like to know what you think about it."
"Well, really," said Hawbury, "I have no
acquaintance with the thing, you know. Never
been on this road in my life. But, at the same
time, I can assure you that this gentleman is a
particular friend of mine, and one of the best
fellows I know. I'd stake my life on his per
fect truth and honor. If he says any thing, you
may believe it because he says it. If he says
there are brigands on the road, they must be
there."
"Oh, of course," said Lady Dalrymple. "You
are right to believe your friend, and I should
trust his word also. But do you not see that
perhaps he may believe what he says, and yet
be mistaken ?"
At this the Baron's face fell. Lord Haw
bury's warm commendation of him had excited
his hopes, but now Lady Dalrymple's answer
had destroyed them.
"For my part," she added, "I don't really
think any of us know much about it. I wish
we could find some citizen of the town, or some
reliable person, and ask him. I wonder wheth
er the inn-keeper is a trust-worthy man."
The Baron shook his head.
" I wouldn't trust one of them. They're the
greatest rascals in the country. Every man of
them is in league with the Garibaldians and
brigands. This man would advise you to take
whatever course would benefit himself and his
friends most."
"But surely we might find some one whose
opinion would be reliable. What do you say-
to one of my drivers ? The one that drove our
carriage looks like a good, honest man."
" Well, perhaps so ; but I wouldn't trust one
of them. I don't believe there's an honest vet-
turino in all Italy."
Lady Dalrymple elevated her eyebrows, and
threw at Hawbury a glance of despair.
"He speaks English, too," said Lady Dal
rymple.
" So do some of the worst rascals in the coun
try," said the Baron.
" Oh, I don't think he can be a very bad ras
cal. We had better question him, at any rate.
Don't you think so, Lord Hawbury ?"
" Well, yes ; I suppose it won't do any harm
to have a look at the beggar."
The driver alluded to was summoned, and
soon made his appearance. He was a square-
headed fellow, with a grizzled beard, and one
of those non-committal faces which may be worn
by either an honest man or a knave. Lady Dal
rymple thought him the former; the Baron the
latter. The result will show which of these
was in the right.
The driver spoke very fair English. He had
been two or three times over the road. He had
not been over it later than two years before.
He didn't know it was dangerous. He had
THE AMERICAN BARON.
83
never heard of brigands being here. He didn't
know. There was a signore at the hotel who
might know. He was traveling to Florence
alone. He was on horseback.
As soon as Lady Dalrymple heard this she
suspected that it was Count Girasole. She de
termined to have his advice about it. So she
sent a private request to that effect.
It was Count Girasole. He entered, and
threw his usual smile around. He was charm
ed, in his broken English, to be of any service
to miladi.
To Lady Dalrymple's statement and ques
tion Girasole listened attentively. As she con
cluded a faint smile passed over his face. The
Baron watched him attentively.
" I know no brigand on dissa road," said he.
Lady Dalrymple looked triumphantly at the
others.
" I have travail dissa road many time. No
dangaire — alia safe."
Another smile from Lady Dalrymple.
The Count Girasole looked at Hawbury and
then at the Baron, with a slight dash of mock
ery in his face.
"As for dangaire," he said — "pouf ! dere is
none. See, I go alone — no arms, not a knife —
an' yet gold in my porte-monnaie."
And he drew forth his porte-monnaie, and
opened it so as to exhibit its contents.
A little further conversation followed. Gira
sole evidently was perfectly familiar with the
road. The idea of brigands appeared to strike
him as some exquisite piece of pleasantry. He
looked as though it was only his respect for the
company which prevented him from laughing
outright. They had taken the trouble to sum
mon him for that ! And, besides, as the Count
suggested, even if a brigand did appear, there
would be always travelers within hearing.
Both Hawbury and the Baron felt humilia
ted, especially the latter ; and Girasole certain
ly had the best of it on that occasion, whatever
his lot had been at other times.
The Count withdrew. The Baron followed,
in company with Hawbury. He was deeply
dejected. First of all, he had hoped to see
Minnie. Then he hoped to frighten the party
back. As to the brigands, he was in most se
rious earnest. All that he said he believed.
He could not understand the driver and Count
Girasole. The former he might consider a
scoundrel ; but why should Girasole mislead ?
And yet he believed that he was right. As for
Hawbury, he didn't believe much in the brig
ands, but he did believe in his friend, and he
didn't think much of Girasole. He was sorry
for his friend, yet didn't know whether he want
ed the party to turn back or not. His one trou
ble was Dacres, who now was watching the Ital
ian like a blood-hound, who had seen him, no
doubt, go up to the ladies, and, of course, would
suppose that Mrs. Willoughby had sent for him.
As for the ladies, their excitement was great.
The doors were thin, and they had heard every
word of the conversation. With Mrs. Willough
by there was but one opinion as to the Baron's
motive : she thought he had come to get a peep
at Minnie, and also to frighten them back to
Rome by silly stories. His signal failure af
forded her great triumph. Minnie, as usual,
sympathized with him, but said nothing. As
for Ethel, the sudden arrival of Lord Hawbury
was overwhelming, and brought a return of all
her former excitement. The sound of his voice
again vibrated through her, and at first there
began to arise no end of wild hopes, which,
however, were as quickly dispelled. The ques
tion arose, What brought him there? There
seemed to her but one answer, and that was his
infatuation for Minnie. Yet to her, as well as
to Lady Dalrymple, it seemed very singular that
he should be so warm a friend to Minnie's tor
mentor. It was a puzzling thing. Perhaps he
did not know that the Baron was Minnie's lover.
Perhaps he thought that his friend would give
her up, and he could win her. Amidst these
thoughts there came a wild hope that perhaps he
did not love Minnie so very much, after all. But
this hope soon was dispelled as she recalled the
events of the past, and reflected on his cool and
easy indifference to every thing connected with
her.
Such emotions as these actuated the ladies ;
and when the guests had gone they joined their
aunt once more, and deliberated. Minnie took
no part in the debate, but sat apart, looking
like an injured being. There was among them
all the same opinion, and that was that it was
all a clumsy device of the Baron's to frighten
them back to Rome. Such being their opinion,
they did not occupy much time in debating
about their course on the morrow. The idea
of going back did not enter their heads.
This event gave a much more agreeable feel
ing to Mrs. Willoughby and Lady Dalrymple
than they had known since they had been
aware that the Baron had followed them.
They felt that they had grappled with the diffi
culty. They had met the enemy and defeated
him. Besides, the presence of Hawbury was
of itself a guarantee of peace. There could be
no further danger of any unpleasant scenes
while Hawbury was with him. Girasole's pres
ence, also, was felt to be an additional guaran
tee of safety.
It was felt by all to be a remarkable circum
stance that so many men should have followed
them on what they had intended as quite a
secret journey. These gentlemen who follow
ed them were the very ones, and the only ones,
from whom they wished to conceal it. Yet it
had all been revealed to them, and lo ! here
they all were. Some debate arose as to wheth
er it would not be better to go back to Rome
now, and defy the Baron, and leave by another
route. But this debate was soon given up, and
they looked forward to the journey as one which
might afford new and peculiar enjoyment.
On the following morning they started at an
early hour. Girasole left about half an hour
after them, and passed them a few miles along
84
THE AMERICAN BARON.
the road. The Baron and the Reverend Saul
left next ; and last of all came Hawbury and
Dacres. The latter was, if possible, more
gloomy and vengeful than ever. The visit of
the Italian on the preceding evening was fully
believed by him to be a scheme of his wife's.
Nor could any amount of persuasion or vehe
ment statement on Hawbury's part in any way
shake his belief.
"No," he would say, "you don't under
stand. Depend upon it, she got him up there
to feast her eyes on him. Depend upon it, she
managed to get some note from him, and pass
one to him in return. He had only to run it
under the leaf of a table, or stick it inside of
some book : no doubt they have it all arranged,
and pass their infernal love-letters backward
and forward. But I'll soon have a chance.
My time is coming. It's near, too. I'll have
my vengeance ; and then for all the wrongs
of all my life that demon of a woman shall
pay me dear !"
To all of which Hawbury had nothing to say.
He could say nothing ; he could do nothing.
He could only stand by his friend, go with him,
and watch over him, hoping to avert the crisis
which he dreaded, or, if it did come, to lessen
the danger of his friend.
The morning was clear and beautiful. The
road wound among the hills. The party went
in the order above mentioned.
First, Girasole, on horseback.
Next, and two miles at least behind, came
the two carriages with the ladies and their
maids.
Third, and half a mile behind these, came
the Baron and the Reverend Saul.
Last of all, and half a mile behind the Baron,
came Hawbury and Scone Dacres.
These last drove along at about this distance.
The scenery around grew grander, and the
mountains higher. The road was smooth and
well constructed, and the carriage rolled along
with an easy, comfortable rumble.
They were driving up a slope which wound
along the side of a hill. At the top of the hill
trees appeared on each side, and the road made
a sharp turn here.
Suddenly the report of a shot sounded ahead.
Then a scream.
" Good Lord ! Dacres, did you hear that ?"
cried Hawbury. "The Baron was right, after
all."
The driver here tried to stop his horses, but
Hawbury would not let him.
' ' Have you a pistol, Dacres ?"
"No."
"Get out!" he shouted to the driver; and,
kicking him out of the seat, he seized the reins
himself, and drove the horses straight forward
to where the noise arose.
"It's the brigands, Dacres. The ladies are
there."
"My wife! O God! my wife!" groaned
Dacres. But a minute before he had been
cursing her.
" Get a knife ! Get something, man ! Have
a fight for it!"
Dacres murmured something.
Hawbury lashed the horses, and drove them
straight toward the wood.
CHAPTER XXIII.
CAUGHT IN AMBUSH.
THE ladies had been driving on, quite uncon
scious of the neighborhood of any danger, ad
miring the beauty of the scenery, and calling
one another's attention to the various objects of
interest which from time to time became visible.
Thus engaged, they slowly ascended the incline
already spoken of, and began to enter the for
est. They had not gone far when the road
took a sudden turn, and here a startling spec
tacle burst upon their view.
The road on turning descended slightly into
a hollow. On the right arose a steep acclivity,
covered with the dense forest. On the other
side the ground rose more gradually, and was
covered over by a forest much less dense. Some
distance in front the road took another turn,
and was lost to view among the trees. About
a hundred yards in front of them a tree had
been felled, and lay across the way, barring
their progress.
About twenty armed men stood before them
close by the place where the turn was. Among
them was a man on horseback. To their
amazement, it was Girasole.
Before the ladies could recover from their
astonishment two of the armed men advanced,
and the driver at once stopped the carriage.
Girasole then came forward.
" Miladi," said he, "I haf de honore of to
invitar you to descend."
"Pray what is the meaning of this?" in
quired Lady Dalrymple, with much agitation.
"It means dat I war wrong. Dere are brig
and on dis road."
Lady Dalrymple said not another word.
The Count approached, and politely offered
his hand to assist the ladies out, but they re
jected it, and got out themselves. First Mrs.
Willoughby, then Ethel, then Lady Dalrymple,
then Minnie. Three of the ladies were white
with utter horror, and looked around in sick
ening fear upon the armed men ; but Minnie
showed not even the slightest particle of fear.
"How horrid!" she exclaimed. "And now
some one will come and save my life again.
It's always the way. I'm sure this isn't my
fault, Kitty darling."
Before her sister could say any thing Gira
sole approached.
"Pardon, mees," he said ; "but I haf made
dis recepzion for you. You sail be well treat.
Do not fear. I lay down my life. "
" Villain !" cried Lady Dalrymple. " Arrest
her at your peril. Remember who she is. She
has friends powerful enough to avenge her if
you dare to injure her."
THE AMERICAN BARON.
85
" You arra mistake, " said Girasole, politely.
"Se is mine, not yours. I am her best fren.
Se is fiancee to me. I save her life — tell her
my love — make a proposezion. Se accept me.
Se is my fiancee. I was oppose by you. What
else sail I do ? I mus haf her. Se is mine.
I am an Italiano nobile, an' I love her. Dere
is no harm for any. You mus see dat I haf
de right. But for me se would be dead."
Lady Dalrymple was not usually excitable,
but now her whole nature was aroused; her
eyes flashed with indignation ; her face turned
red ; she gasped for breath, and fell to the
ground. Ethel rushed to assist her, and two
of the maids came up. Lady Dalrymple lay
senseless.
With Mrs. Willoughby the result was differ
ent. She burst into tears.
" Count Girasole," she cried, "oh, spare her !
If you love her, spare her. She is only a child.
If we opposed you, it was not from any objec
tion to vou ; it was because she is such a
child."
"You mistake," said the Count, shrugging
his shoulders. "I love her better than life.
Se love me. It will make her happy. You
come too. You sail see se is happy. Come.
Be my sistaire. It is love — "
Mrs. Willoughby burst into fresh tears at
this, and flung her arms around Minnie, and
moaned and wept.
"Well, now, Kitty darling, I think it's hor
rid. You're never satisfied. You're always
finding fault. I'm sure if you don't like Rufus
K. Guun, you — "
But Minnie's voice was interrupted by the
sound of approaching wheels. It was the car
riage of the Baron and his friend. The Baron
had feared brigands, but he was certainly not
expecting to come upon them so suddenly. The
brigands had been prepared, and as the carriage
turned it was suddenly stopped by the two car
riages in front, and at once was surrounded.
The Baron gave one lightning glance, and
surveyed the whole situation. He did not
move, but his form was rigid, and every nerve
was braced, and his eyes gleamed fiercely. He
saw it all — the crowd of women, the calm face
of Minnie, and the uncontrollable agitation of
Mrs. Willoughby.
"Well, by thunder!" he exclaimed.
Girasole rode up and called out :
*' Surrender! You arra my prisoner."
"What! it's you, is it?" said the Baron;
and he glared for a moment with a vengeful
look at Girasole.
"Descend," said Girasole. "You mus be
bound."
"Bound? All right. Here, parson, you
jump down, and let them tie your hands."
The Baron stood up. The Reverend Saul
stood up too. The Reverend Saul began to
step down very carefully. The brigands gath
ered around, most of them being on the side on
which the two were about to descend. The
Reverend Saul had just stepped to the ground.
The Baron was just preparing to follow. The
brigands were impatient to secure them, when
suddenly, with a quick movement, the Baron
gave a spring out of the opposite side of the
carriage, and leaped to the ground. The brig
ands were taken completely by surprise, and
before they could prepare to follow him, he had
sprung into the forest, and, with long bounds,
was rushing up the steep hill and out of sight.
One shot was fired after him, and that was
the shot that Hawbury and Dacres heard.
Two men sprang after him with the hope of
catching him.
In a few moments a loud cry was heard from
the woods.
"MIN!"
Minnie heard it ; a gleam of light flashed
from her eyes, a smile of triumph came over
her lips.
" Wha-a-a-a-t ?" she called in reply.
" Wa-a-a-a-a-a-it !" was the cry that came
back — and this was the cry that Hawbury and
Dacres had heard.
" Sacr-r-r-r-r-r-remento ! " growled Girasole.
"I'm sure /don't know what he means by
telling me that," said Minnie. "How can I
wait if this horrid Italian won't let me ? I'm
sure he might be more considerate."
Poor Mrs. Willoughby, who had for a mo
ment been roused to hope by the escape of the
Baron, now fell again into despair, and wept
and moaned and clung to Minnie. Lady Dal
rymple still lay senseless, in spite of the efforts
of Ethel and the maids. The occurrence had
been more to her than a mere encounter with
brigands. It was the thought of her own care
lessness that overwhelmed her. In an instant
the thought of the Baron's warning and his
solemn entreaties flashed across her memory.
She recollected how Hawbury had commended
his friend, and how she had turned from these
to put her trust in the driver and Girasole, the
very men who had betrayed her. These were
the thoughts that overwhelmed her.
But now there arose once more the noise
of rolling wheels, advancing more swiftly than
the last, accompanied by the lash of a whip and
shouts of a human voice. Girasole spoke to
his men, and they moved up nearer to the bend,
and stood in readiness there.
What Hawbury's motive was it is not diffi
cult to tell. He was not armed, and therefore
could not hope to do much ; but he had in an
instant resolved to rush thus into the midst of
the danger. First of all he thought that a
struggle might be going on between the drivers,
the other travelers, and the brigands ; in which
event his assistance would be of great value.
Though unarmed, he thought he might snatch
or wrest a weapon from some one of the enemy.
In addition to this, he wished to strike a blow
to save the ladies from captivity, even if his
blow should be unavailing. Even if he had
known how matters were, he would probably
have acted in precisely the same way. As for
Dacres, he had but one idea. He was sure it
86
THE AMERICAN BARON.
was some trick concocted by his wife and the
Italian, though why they should do so he did
not stop, in his mad mood, to inquire. A vague
idea that a communication had passed between
them on the preceding evening with reference
to this was now in his mind, and his vengeful |
feeling was stimulated by this thought to the
utmost pitch of intensity.
Hawbury thus lashed his horses, and they
flew along the road. After the first cry and
the shot that they had heard there was no fur
ther noise. The stillness was mysterious. It
showed Hawbury that the struggle, if there had
been any, was over. But the first idea still re
mained both in his own mind and in that of
Dacres. On they went, and now they came to
the turn in the road. Round this they whirled,
and in an instant the scene revealed itself.
Three carriages stopped ; some drivers stand
ing and staring indifferently ; a group of wo
men crowding around a prostrate form that lay
in the road ; a pale, beautiful girl, to whom a
beautiful woman was clinging passionately ; a
crowd of armed brigands with leveled pieces ;
and immediately before them a horseman — the
Italian, Girasole.
One glance showed all this. Hawbury could
not distinguish any face among the crowd of
women that bent over Lady Dalrymple, and j
Ethel's face was thus still unrevealed ; but he
saw Minnie and Mrs. Willoughby and Girasole.
'•What the devil's all this about?" asked
Hawbury, haughtily, as his horses stopped at
the Baron's carriage.
"You are prisoners — " began Girasole.
But before he could say another word he was
interrupted by a cry of fury from Dacres, who,
the moment that he had recognized him, sprang
to his feet, and with a long, keen knife in his
hand, leaped from the carriage into the midst
of the brigands, striking right and left, and en
deavoring to force his way toward Girasole.
In an instant Hawbury was by his side. Two
men fell beneath the fierce thrusts of Dacres's
knife, and Hawbury tore the rifle from a third.
With the clubbed end of this he began dealing
blows right and left. The men fell back and
leveled their pieces. Dacres sprang forward,
and was within three steps of Girasole — his
face full of ferocity, his eyes flashing, and look
ing not so much like an English gentleman as
one of the old vikings in a Berserker rage.
One more spring brought him closer to Girasole.
The Italian retreated. One of his men flung
himself before Dacres and tried to grapple with
him. The next instant he fell with a groan,
stabbed to the heart. With a yell of rage the
others rushed upon Dacres ; but the latter was
now suddenly seized with a new idea. Turning
for an instant he held his assailants at bay ; and
then, seizing the opportunity, sprang into the
woods and ran. One or two shots were fired,
and then half a dozen men gave chase.
Meanwhile one or two shots had been fired
at Hawbury, but, in the confusion, they had not
taken effect. Suddenly, as he stood with up
lifted rifle ready to strike, his enemies made a
simultaneous rush upon him. He was seized
by a dozen strong arms. He struggled fierce
ly, but his efforts were unavailing. The odds
were too great. Before long he was thrown to
the ground on his face, and his arms bound be
hind him. After this he was gagged.
The uproar of this fierce struggle had roused
all the ladies, and they turned their eyes in
horror to where the two were fighting against
such odds. Ethel raised herself on her knees
from beside Lady Dalrymple, and caught sight
of Hawbury. For a moment she remained mo
tionless ; and then she saw the escape of Dacres,
and Hawbury going down in the grasp of his
assailants. She gave a loud shriek and rushed
forward. But Girasole intercepted her.
" Go back," he said. " De milor is my pris
oner. Back, or you will be bound."
And at a gesture from him two of the men
advanced to seize Ethel.
"Back!" he said, once more, in a stern
voice. "You mus be tentif to miladi."
Ethel shrank back.
The sound of that scream had struck on
Hawbury's ears, but he did not recognize it.
If he thought of it at all, he supposed it was
the scream of common terror from one of the
women. He was sore and bruised and fast
bound. He was held down also in such a way
that he could not see the party of ladies. The
Baron's carriage intercepted the view, for he
had fallen behind this during the final struggle.
After a little time he was allowed to sit up, but
still he could not see beyond.
There was now some delay, and Girasole
gave some orders to his men. The ladies wait
ed with fearful apprehensions. They listened
eagerly to hear if there might not be some
sounds of approaching help. But no such
sounds came to gladden their hearts. Lady
Dalrymple, also, still lay senseless ; and Ethel,
full of the direst anxiety about Hawbury, had
to return to renew her efforts toward reviving
her aunt.
Before long the brigands who had been in
pursuit of the fugitives returned to the road.
They did not bring back either of them. A
dreadful question arose in the minds of the la
dies as to the meaning of this. Did it mean
that the fugitives had escaped, or had been
shot down in the woods by their wrathful pur
suers ? It was impossible for them to find out.
Girasole went over to them and conversed with
them apart. The men all looked sullen ; but
whether that arose from disappointed venge
ance or gratified ferocity it was impossible for
them to discern.
The brigands now turned their attention to
their own men. Two of these had received
bad but not dangerous wounds from the dag
ger of Dacres, and the scowls of pain and rage
which they threw upon Hawbury and the other
captives boded nothing but the most cruel fate
to all of them. Another, however, still lay
there. It was the one who had intercepted
THE AMERICAN BARON.
87
TUB MLLEE.
Dacres in his rush upon Girasole. He lay mo
tionless in a pool of blood. They turned him
over. His white, rigid face, as it became ex
posed to view, exhibited the unmistakable mark
of death, and a gash on his breast showed how
his fate had met him.
The brigands uttered loud cries, and ad
vanced toward Hawbury. He sat regarding
them with perfect indifference. They raised
their rifles, some clubbing them, others taking
aim, swearing and gesticulating all the time
like maniacs.
Hawbury, however, did not move a muscle
of his face, nor did he show the slightest feel
ing of any kind. He was covered with dust,
and his clothes were torn and splashed with
mud, and his hands were bound, and his mouth
was gagged ; but he preserved a coolness that
astonished his enemies. Had it not been for
this coolness his brains might have been blown
out — in which case this narrative would never
have been written ; but there was something in
his look which made the Italians pause, gave
Girasole time to interfere, and thus preserved
my story from ruin.
Girasole then came up and made his men
stand back. They obeyed sullenly.
Girasole removed the gag.
Then he stood and looked at Hawbury.
Hawbury sat and returned his look with his
usual nonchalance, regarding the Italian with
a cold, steady stare, which produced upon the
latter its usual maddening effect.
"Milor will be ver glad to hear," said he,
with a mocking smile, " dat de mees will be
take good care to. Milor was attentif to de
mees ; but de mees haf been fiance'e to me,
an* so I take dis occazione to mak her mine. I
sail love her, an' se sail love me. I haf save
her life, an' se haf been fiancee to me since
den."
Now Girasole had chosen to say this to Haw
bury from the conviction that Hawbury was
Minnie's lover, and that the statement of this
would inflict a pang upon the heart of his sup
posed rival which would destroy his coolness.
Thus he chose rather to strike at Hawbury's
jealousy than at his fear or at his pride.
But he was disappointed. Hawbury heard
his statement with utter indifference.
88
THE AMERICAN BARON.
"Well," said he, "all I can say is that it
seems to me to be a devilish odd way of going
to work about it."
" Aha !" said Girasole, fiercely. " You sail
see. Se sail be mine. Aha!"
Hawbury made no reply, and Girasole, after
a gesture of impatience, walked off, baffled.
In a few minutes two men came up to Haw-
bury, and led him away to the woods on the left.
•'THEY SAW A BULNED HOUSE."
CHAPTER XXIV.
AM us. ; THE BRIGANDS.
GIRASOLE now returned to the ladies. They
were in the same position in which he had left
them. Mrs. Willoughby with Minnie, and Ethel,
with the maids, attending to Lady Dalrymple.
"Miladi,"said Girasole, "I beg your atten-
zion. I haf had de honore to inform you dat dis
mees is my fiancee. Se haf give me her heart
an' her hand ; se love me, an' I love her. I was
prevent from to see her, an' I haf to take her in
dis mannaire. I feel sad at de pain I haf give
you, an' assuir you dat it was inevitabile. You
sail not be troubled more. You are free.
Mees," he continued, taking Minnie's hand,
"you haf promis me dis fair ban', an' you are
mine. You come to one who loves you bettaire
dan life, an' who you love. You owe youair life
to me. I sail make it so happy as nevair was."
"I'm sure / don't want to be happy," said
Minnie. "I don't want to leave darling Kitty
— and it's a shame — and you'll make me hate
you if you do so."
"Miladi,"said Girasole to Mrs. Willoughby,
" de mees says se not want to leaf you. Eef
you want to come, you may come an' be our
sistaire."
" Oh, Kitty darling, you won't leave me, will
you, all alone with this horrid man ?" said Min
nie.
"My darling," moaned Mrs. Willoughby,
"how can I? I'll go. Oh, my sweet sister,
what misery !"
"Oh, now that will be really quite delightful
if you will come, Kitty darling. Only I'm
afraid you'll find it awfully uncomfortable."
Girasole turned once more to the other ladies.
"I beg you will assura de miladi when she
recovaire of my consideration de mos distingue,
an' convey to her de regrettas dat I haf. Mi
ladi," he continued, addressing Ethel, "you are
free, an' can go. You will not be molest by
me. You sail go safe. Yon haf not ver far.
You sail fin' houses dere — forward — before —
not far.".
With these words he turned away.
" You mus come wit me," he said to Mrs.
Willoughby and Minnie. " Come. Eet ees
not ver far."
He walked slowly into the woods on the left,
and the two sisters followed him. Of the two
Minnie was far the more cool and collected.
She was as composed as usual; and, as there
was no help for it, she walked on. Mrs. Wil
loughby, however, was terribly agitated, and
wept and shuddered and moaned incessantly.
"Kitty darling," said Minnie, "I wish you
wouldn't go on so. You really make me feel
quite nervous. I never saw you so bad in my
life."
"Poor Minnie*! Poor child ! Poor sweet
child!"
"Well, if I am a child, you needn't go and
tell me about it all the time. It's really quite
horrid."
Mrs. Willoughby said no more, but generous
ly tried to repress her own feelings, so as not
to give distress to her sister.
After the Count had entered the wood with
the two sisters the drivers removed the horses
from the carriages and went away, led off by
the man who had driven the ladies. This was
the man whose stolid face had seemed likely
to belong to an honest man, but who now was
shown to belong to the opposite class. These
men went down the road over which they had
come, leaving the carriages there with the ladies
and their maids.
Girasole now led the way, and Minnie and
her sister followed him. The wood was very
thick, and grew more so as they advanced, but
there was not much underbrush, and progress
was not difficult. Several times a wild thought
of flight came to Mrs. Willoughby, but was at
once dispelled by a helpless sense of its utter
impossibility. How could she persuade the
impracticable Minnie, who seemed so free from
all concern ? or, if she could persuade her, how
could she accomplish her desire? She would
THE AMERICAN BARON.
89
at once be pursued and surrounded, while, even
if she did manage to escape, how could she ever
find her way to any place of refuge ? Every
minute, also, drew them deeper and deeper into
the woods, and the path was a winding one, in
which she soon became bewildered, until at last
all sense of her whereabouts was utterly gone.
At last even the idea of escaping ceased to sug
gest itself, and there remained only a dull de
spair, a sense of utter helplessness and hope
lessness — the sense of one who is going to his
doom.
Girasole said nothing whatever, but led the
way in silence, walking slowly enough to ac
commodate the ladies, and sometimes holding
an overhanging branch to prevent it from spring
ing back in their faces. Minnie walked on light
ly, and with an elastic step, looking around with
evident interest upon the forest. Once a pass
ing lizard drew from her a pretty little shriek
of alarm, thus showing that while she was so
calm in the face of real and frightful danger,
she could be alarmed by even the most innocent
object that affected her fancy. Mrs. Willough-
by thought that she understood Minnie before,
but this little shriek at a lizard, from one who
smiled at the brigands, struck her as a problem
quite beyond her power to solve.
The woods now began to grow thinner. The
trees were larger and farther apart, and rose all
around in columnar array, so that it was possi
ble to see between them to a greater distance.
At length there appeared before them, through
the trunks of the trees, the gleam of water. Mrs.
Willoughby noticed this, and wondered what it
might be. At first she thought it was a harbor
on the coast ; then she thought it was some riv
er ; but finally, on coming nearer, she saw that
it was a lake. In a few minutes after they first
caught sight of it they had reached its banks.
It was a most beautiful and sequestered spot.
All around were high wooded eminences, be
yond whose undulating summits arose the tow
ering forms of the Apennine heights. Among
these hills lay a little lake about a mile in length
and breadth, whose surface was as smooth as
glass, and reflected the surrounding shores. On
their right, as they descended, they saw some
figures moving, and knew them to be the brig
ands, while on their left they saw a ruined house.
Toward this Girasole led them.
The house stood on the shore of the lake. It
was of stone, and was two stories in height.
The roof was still good, but the windows were
gone. There was no door, but half a dozen or
so of the brigands stood there, and formed a
sufficient guard to prevent the escape of any
prisoner. These men had dark, wicked eyes
and sullen faces, which afforded fresh terror to
Mrs. Willoughby. She had thought, in her
desperation, of making some effort to escape by
bribing the men, but the thorough-bred rascal
ity which was evinced in the faces of these ruf
fians showed her that they were the very fel
lows who would take her money and cheat her
afterward. If she had been able to speak Ital
ian, she might have secured their services by
the prospect of some future reward after escap
ing ; but, as it was, she could not speak a word
of the language, and thus could not enter upon
even the preliminaries of an escape.
On reaching the house the ruffians stood
aside, staring hard at them. Mrs. Willoughby
shrank in terror from the baleful glances of
their eyes ; but Minnie looked at them calmly
and innocently, and not without some of that
curiosity which a child shows when he first sees
a Chinaman or an Arab in the streets. Gira
sole then led the way up stairs to a room on the
second story.
It was an apartment of large size, extending
across the house, with a window at each end,
and two on the side. On the floor there was
a heap of straw, over which some skins were
thrown. There were no chairs, nor was there
any table.
"Scusa me," said Girasole, "miladi, for dis
accommodazion. It gifs me pain, but I prom
ise it sail not be long. Only dis day an' dis
night here. I haf to detain you dat time. Den
we sail go to where I haf a home fitter for de
bride. I haf a home wharra you sail be a happy
bride, mees — "
" But I don't want to stay here at all in such
a horrid place," said Minnie, looking around in
disgust.
"Only dis day an' dis night," said Girasole,
imploringly. "Aftaire you sail have all you
sail wis."
" Well, at any rate, I think it's very horrid
in you to shut me up here. You might let me
walk outside in the woods. I'm so azt-fully fond
of the woods. "
Girasole smiled faintly.
"And so you sail have plenty of de wood —
but to-morra. You wait here now. All safe —
oh yes — secura — all aright — oh yes — slip to
night, an' in de mornin' early you sail be mine.
Dere sail come a priest, an' we sail have de cere
mony."
" Well, I think it was very unkind in you to
bring me to such a horrid place. And how can
I sit down ? You might have had a chair. And
look at poor, darling Kitty. You may be un
kind to me, but you needn't make her sit on the
floor. You never saved her life, and you have
no right to be unkind to her."
"Unkind! Oh, mees*! — my heart, my life, all
arra youairs, an' I lay my life at youair foot."
"I think it would be far more kind if yon
would put a chair at poor Kitty's feet," retort
ed Minnie, with some show of temper.
"But, oh, carissima, tink — de wild wood —
noting here — no, noting — not a chair — only de
straw. "
"Then you had no business to bring me here.
You might have known that there were no chairs
here. I can't sit down on nothing. But I sup
pose you expect me to stand up. And if that
isn't horrid, I don't know what is. I'm sure I
don't know what poor dear papa would say if
he were to see me now."
90
THE AMERICAN BARON.
WHAT IS THIS FOE?"
"Do not grieve, carissima mia — do not,
charming mees, decompose yourself. To-mor-
ra you sail go to a bettaire place, an' I will
carra you to my castello. You sail haf every
want, you sail enjoy every wis, you sail be
happy."
"But I don't see howl can be happy without
a chair," reiterated Minnie, in whose mind this
one grievance now became pre-eminent. " You
talk as though you think I am made of stone or
iron, and you think I can stand here all day or
all night, and you want me to sleep on that
horrid straw and those horrid furry things. I
suppose this is the castle that you speak of; and
I'm sure I wonder why you ever thought of
bringing me here. I suppose it doesn't make
so much difference about a carpet ; but you will
not even let me have a chair ; and I think you're
very unkind."
Girasole was in despair. He stood in
thought for some time. He felt that Minnie's
rebuke was deserved. If she had reproached
him with waylaying her and carrying her off, he
could have borne it, and could have found a re
ply. But such a charge as this was unanswer
able. It certainly was very hard that she
should not be able to sit down. But then how
was it possible for him to find a chair in the
woods? It was an insoluble problem. How
in the world could he satisfy her ?
Minnie's expression also was most touching.
The fact that she had no chair to sit on seemed
to absolutely overwhelm her. The look that
she gave Girasole was so piteous, so reproach
ful, so heart-rending, that his soul actually
quaked, and a thrill of remorse passed all through
his frame. He felt a cold chill running to the
very marrow of his bones.
" I think you're very, very unkind," said Min
nie, " and I really don't see how I can ever speak
to you again."
This was too much. Girasole turned away.
He rushed down stairs. He wandered frantic
ally about. He looked in all directions for a
chair. There was plenty of wood certainly —
for all around he saw the vast forest — but of
what use was it? He could not transform a
tree into a chair. He communicated his diffi
culty to some of the men. They shook their
heads helplessly. At last he saw the stump of
THE AMERICAN BARON.
91
a tree which was of such a shape that it looked
as though it might be used as a seat. It was
his only resource, and he seized it. Calling
two or three of the men, he had the stump car
ried to the old house. He rushed up stairs to
acquaint Minnie with his success, and to try to
console her. She listened in coldness to his
hasty words. The men who were carrying the
stump came up with a clump and a clatter,
breathing hard, for the stump was very heavy,
and finally placed it on the landing in front of
Minnie's door. On reaching that spot it was
found that it would not go in.
Minnie heard the noise and came out. She
looked at the stump, then at the mer and then
at Girasole.
"What is this for ?" she asked.
"Eet — eet ees for a chair."
"A chair !" exclaimed Minnie. " Why, it's
nothing but a great big, horrid, ugly old stump,
and — "
Her remarks ended in a scream. She turned
and ran back into the .room.
"What — what is de mattaire?" cried the
Count, looking into the room with a face pale
with anxiety.
"Oh, take it away! take it away!" cried
Minnie, in terror.
"What? what?"
"Take it away! take it away!" she re
peated.
"But eet ees for you — eet ees a seat."
"I don't want it. I won't have it!" cried
Minnie. "It's full of horrid ants and things.
And it's dreadful — and very, very cruel in you
to bring them up here just to tease me, when
you know I hate them so. Take it away ! take
it away ! oh, do please take it away ! And oh,
do please go away yourself, and leave me with
dear, darling Kitty. She never teases me. She
is always kind."
Girasole turned away once more, in fresh
trouble. He had the stump carried off, and
then he wandered away. He was quite at a
loss what to do. He was desperately in love,
and it was a very small request for Minnie to
make, and he was in that state of mind when
it would be a happiness to grant her slightest
wish; but here he found himself in a difficulty
from which he could find no possible means of
escape.
"And now, Kitty darling," said Minnie, after
Girasole had gone — "now you see how very,
very wrong you were to be so opposed to that
dear, good, kind, nice Rufus K. Gunn. He
would never have treated me so. He would
never have taken me to a place like this — a
horrid old house by a horrid damp pond, with
out doors and windows, just like a beggar's
house — and then put me in a room without a
chair to sit on when I'm so awfully tired. He
was always kind to me, and that was the reason
you hated him so, because you couldn't bear to
have people kind to me. And I'm so tired."
" Come, then, poor darling. I'll make a nice
seat for you out of these skins."
And Mrs. Willoughby began to fold some of
them up and lay them one upon the other.
' ' What is that for, Kitty dear ?" asked Minnie.
"To make you a nice, soft seat, dearest."
"But I don't want them, and I won't sit on
the horrid things," said Minnie.
"But, darling, they are as soft as a cush
ion. See!" And her sister pressed her hand
on them, so as to show how soft they were.
"I don't think they're soft at all," said Min
nie; "and I wish you wouldn't tease me so,
when I'm so tired."
"Then come, darling ; I will sit on them, and
you shall sit on my knees."
"But I don't want to go near those horrid
furry things. They belong to cows and things.
I think every body's unkind to me to-day."
" Minnie, dearest, you really wound me when
you talk in that way. Be reasonable now.
See what pains I take. I do all I can for
you."
" But I'm always reasonable, and it's^ow that
are unreasonable, when you want me to sit on
that horrid fur. It's very, very disagreeable in
you, Kitty dear."
Mrs. Willoughby said nothing, but went on
folding some more skins. These she placed on
the straw so that a pile was formed about as
high as an ordinary chair. This pile was placed
against the wall so that the wall served as a
support.
Then she seated herself upon this.
"Minnie, dearest," said she.
"Well, Kitty darling."
" It's really quite soft and comfortable. Do
come and sit on it; do, just io please me,
only for five minutes. See! I'll spread my
dress over it so that you need not touch it.
Come, dearest, only for five minutes."
"Well, I'll sit on it just for a little mite of
a time, if you promise not to tease me."
"Tease you, dear! Why, of course not.
Come."
So Minnie went over and sat by her sister's
side.
In about an hour Girasole came back. The
two sisters were seated there. Minnie's head
was resting on her sister's shoulder, and she
was fast asleep, while Mrs. Willoughby sat mo
tionless, with her face turned toward him, and
such an expression in her dark eyes that Gira
sole felt awed. He turned in silence and went
away.
CHAPTER XXV.
SEEKING FOR HELP.
THE departure of the drivers with their
horses had increased the difficulties of the
party, and had added to their danger. Of that
party Ethel was now the head, and her efforts
were directed more zealously than ever to bring
back Lady Dalrymple to her senses. At last
these efforts were crowned with success, and,
after being senseless for nearly an hour, she
92
THE AMERICAN BAROX.
"ETHEL OBTAINED A PAIB OF SCISSORS.
came to herself. The restoration of her senses,
however, brought with it the discovery of all
that had occurred, and thus caused a new rush
of emotion, which threatened painful conse
quences. But the consequences were averted,
and at length she was able to rise. She was
then helped into her carriage, after which the
question arose as to their next proceeding.
The loss of the horses and drivers was a very
embarrassing thing to them, and for a time they
were utterly at a loss what course to adopt.
Lady Dalrymple was too weak to walk, and they
had no means of conveying her. The maids had
simply lost their wits from fright ; and Ethel
could not see her way clearly out of the diffi
culty. At this juncture they were roused by the
approach of the Rev. Saul Tozer.
This reverend man had been bound as he de
scended from his carriage, and had remained
bound ever since. In that state he had been a
spectator of the struggle and its consequences,
and he now came forward to offer his serv
ices.
"I don't know whether you remember me,
ma'am," said he to Lady Dalrymple, " but I
looked in at your place at Rome ; and in any
case I am bound to offer you iny assistance,
since you are companions with me in my bonds,
which I'd be much obliged if one of you ladies
would untie or cut. Perhaps it would be best
to untie it, as rope's valuable."
At this request Ethel obtained a pair of scis
sors from one of the maids, and after vigorous
efforts succeeded in freeing the reverend gentle
man.
" Really, Sir, I am very much obliged for this
kind offer," said Lady Dalrymple, " and I avail
myself of it gratefully. Can you advise us what
is best to do?"
"Well, ma'am, I've been turning it over in
my mind, and have made it a subject of prayer ;
and it seems to me that it wouldn't be bad to go
out and see the country."
"There are no houses for miles," said Ethel.
" Have you ever been this road before ?" said
Tozer.
"No."
" Then how do you know ?"
" Oh, I was thinking of the part we had pass
ed over."
" True ; but the country in front may be dif
ferent. Didn't that brigand captain say some
thing about getting help ahead ?"
"Yes, so he did; I remember now," said
Ethel.
" Well, I wouldn't take his advice generally,
but in this matter I don't see any harm in fol
lowing it ; so I move that I be a committee of
one to go ahead and investigate the country and
bring help."
"Oh, thanks, thanks, very much. Really,
Sir, this is very kind," said Lady Dalrymple.
"And I'll go too," said Ethel, as a sudden
thought occurred to her. "Would you be
afraid, aunty dear, to stay here alone?"
"Certainly not, dear. I have no more fear
for myself, but I'm afraid to trust you out of my
sight."
" Oh, you need not fear for me," said Ethel.
" I shall certainly be as safe farther on as I am
here. Besides, if we can find help I will know
best what is wanted."
" Well, dear, I suppose you may go."
Without further delay Ethel started off, and
Tozer walked by her side. They .went under
the fallen tree, and then walked quickly along
the road.
" Do you speak Italian, miss ?" asked Tozer.
"No."
"I'm sorry for that. I don't either. I'm
told it's a fine language."
" So I believe ; but how very awkward it will
be not to be able to speak to any person !"
" Well, the /talian is a kind of offshoot of the
Latin, and I can scrape together a few Latin
words — enough to make myself understood, I
do believe."
" Can you. really ? How very fortunate !"
" It is somewhat providential, miss, and I
hope I may succeed."
They walked on in silence now for some
time. Ethel was too sad to talk, and Tozer
was busily engaged in recalling all the Latin at
his command. After a while he began to grow
sociable.
" Might I ask, miss, what persuasion you
are ?"
"Persuasion?" said Ethel, in surprise.
"Yes, 'm; de-nomination — religious body,
you know."
"Oh ! why, I belong to the Church."
" Oh ! and what church did you say, 'm ?"
THE AMERICAN BARON.
93
"The Church of England."
" H'm. The Tiscopalian body. Well, it's
a high-toned body."
Ethel gave a faint smile at this whimsical ap
plication of a name to her church, and then
Tozer returned to the charge.
"Are you a professor?"
"A what?"
"A professor."
" A professor ?" repeated Ethel. "I don't
think I quite understand you."
"Well, do you belong to the church? Are
you a member ?"
"Oh yes."
" I'm glad to hear it. It's a high and a holy
and a happy perrivelege to belong to the church
and enjoy the means of grace. I trust you live
up to your perriveleges ?"
"Live what?" asked Ethel.
"Live up to your perriveleges," repeated
Tozer — " attend on all the means of grace — be
often at the assembling of yourself together."
" The assembling of myself together ? I
don't thinkl quite get your meaning," said Ethel.
"Meeting, you know — church-meeting."
"Oh yes; I didn't understand. Oh yes, I
always go to church."
" That's right," said Tozer, with a sigh of re
lief; " and I suppose, now, you feel an interest in
the cause of missions?"
"Missions? Oh, I don't know. The Roman
Catholics practice that to some extent, and sev
eral of my friends say they feel benefit from a
mission once a year ; but for my part I have not
yet any very decided leanings to Roman Cathol
icism."
"Oh, dear me, dear me!" cried Tozer,
"that's not what I mean at all; I mean Prot
estant missions to the heathen, you know."
"I beg your pardon," said Ethel. "I
thought you were referring to something else."
Tozer was silent now for a few minutes, and
then asked her, abruptly,
" What's your opinion about the Jews?"
"The Jews?" exclaimed Ethel, looking at
him in some surprise, and thinking that her
companion must be a little insane to carry on
such an extraordinary conversation with such
very abrupt changes — "the Jews?"
"Yes, the Jews."
"Oh, I don't like them at all."
"But they're the chosen people."
"I can't help that. I don't like them. But
then, you know, I never really saw much of
them."
"I refer to their future prospects," said
Tozer — "to prophecy. I should like to ask
you how you regard them in that light. Do
you believe in a spiritual or a temporal Zion ?"
" Spiritual Zion ? Temporal Zion ?"
"Yes, "m."
"Well, really, I don't know. I don't think I
believe any thing at all about it."
" But you must believe in either one or the
other — you've got to," said Tozer, positively.
" But I don't, you know ; and how can I ?"
Tozer threw at her a look of commiseration,
and began to think that his companion was not
much better than a heathen. In his own home
circle he could have put his hand on little girls
of ten who were quite at home on all these sub
jects. He was silent for a time, and then be
gan again.
"I'd like to ask you one thing," said he,
"very much."
" What is it?" asked Ethel.
"Do you believe," asked Tozer, solemnly,
" that we're living in the Seventh Vial?"
"Vial ? Seventh Vial ?" said Ethel, in fresh
amazement.
"Yes, the Seventh Vial," said Tozer, in a
sepulchral voice.
' ' Living in the Seventh Vial ? I really don't
know how one can live in a vial."
"The Great Tribulation, you know."
" Great Tribulation ?"
"Yes; for instance, now, don't you believe
in the Apocalyptic Beast ?"
" I don't know," said Ethel, faintly.
"Well, at any rate, you believe in his num
ber — you must."
"His number?"
"Yes."
" What do you mean ?"
"Why, the number six, six, six — six hun
dred and sixty-six."
"I really don't understand this," said Ethel.
"Don't you believe that the Sixth Vial is
done ?"
" Sixth Vial ? What, another vial ?"
" Yes ; and the drying of the Euphrates."
"The Euphrates? drying?" repeated Ethel
in a trembling voice. She began to be alarmed.
She felt sure that this man was insane. She had
never heard such incoherency in her life. And
she was alone with him. She stole a timid look,
and saw his long, sallow face, on which there
was now a preoccupied expression, and the look
did not reassure her.
But Tozer himself was a little puzzled, and
felt sure that his companion must have her own.
opinions on the subject, so he began again :
" Now I suppose you've read Fleming on the
Papacy ?"
" No, I haven't. I never heard of it."
" Strange, too. You've heard of Elliot's
'Hone Apocalyptic^,' I suppose?"
"No," said Ethel, timidly.
" Well, it's all in Gumming — and you've read
him, of course?"
" Gumming? I never heard of him. Who
is he?"
" What, never heard of Gumming ?"
"Never."
" And never read his ' Great Tribulation ?' "
"No."
" Nor his ' Great Expectation ?' "
"No."
"What! not even his 'Apocalyptic Sketch
es?'"
" I never heard of them."
Tozer looked at her in astonishment ; but at
THE AMERICAN BARON.
" TONITRUENBUM EBT MA [.I'M I
this moment they came to a turn in the road,
when a sight appeared which drew from Ethel
an expression of joy.
It was a little valley on the right, in which
was a small hamlet with a church. The houses
were but small, and could not give them much ac
commodation, but they hoped to find help there.
"I wouldn't trust the people," said Ethel.
"I dare say they're all brigands; but there
ought to be a priest there, and we can ap
peal to him."
This proposal pleased Tozer, who resumed
his work of collecting among the stores of his
memory scraps of Latin which he had once
stored away there.
The village was at no very great distance
away from the road, and they reached it in a
short time. They went at once to the church.
The door was open, and a priest, who seemed
the village priest, was standing there. He was
stout, with a good-natured expression on his
hearty, rosy face, and a fine twinkle in his
eye, which lighted up pleasantly as he saw the
strangers enter.
Tozer at once held out his hand and shook
that of the priest.
"Buon giorno," said the priest.
Ethel shook her head.
"Parlate Italiano?" paid he.
Ethel shook her head.
"Salve, domine," said Tozer, who at once
plunged headlong into Latin.
"Salve bene," said the priest, in some sur
prise.
"Quomodo vales?" asked Tozer.
"Optime valeo, Dei gratia. Spero vos va-
lere."
Tozer found the priest's pronunciation a lit
tle difficult, but managed to understand him.
"Domine," said he, " sumus viatores in-
felices et innocentes, in quos fures nuper itn-
petum fecerunt. Omnia bona nostra arripue-
runt — "
"Fieri non potest!" said the priest.
" Et omnes amicos nostros in captivitatem
lachrymabilem tractaverunt — "
"Cor dolet," said the priest; " miseret me
vestrum."
THE AMERICAN BARON.
95
" Ctijusmodi terra est haec in qua sustenen-
dum est tot labores ?"
The priest sighed.
"Tonitruendum est malum!" exclaimed To-
zer, excited by the recollection of his wrongs.
The priest stared.
" In hostium manibus fuimus, et, bonum toni-
tru ! omnia impedimenta amissimus. Est ni-
mis omnipotens malum I"
" Quid vis dicere ?" said the priest, looking
puzzled. " Quid tibi vis?"
"Est nimis sempiternum durum!"
" In nomine omnium sanctorum apostolorum-
que," cried the priest, "quid vis dicere?"
"Potes ne juvare nos," continued Tozer, "in
hoc lachrymabile ternpore ? Volo unum verum
vivum virum qui possit — "
"Diabolus arripiat me si possim nnum solum
yerbum intelligere !" cried the priest. " Be ja-
bers if I ondherstan' yez at all at all ; an' there
ye have it."
And with this the priest raised his head, with
its puzzled look, and scratched that organ with
such a natural air, and with such a full Irish
flavor in his brogue and in his face, that both
of his visitors were perfectly astounded.
"Good gracious!" cried Tozer; and seizing
the priest's hand in both of his, he nearly wrung
it off. "Why, what a providence! Why,
really, now! And you were an Irishman all
the time ! And why didn't you speak English ?"
" Sure and what made you spake Latin ?"
cried the priest. "And v.'hat was it you were
thryin' to say wid yer ' sempiternum durum,'
and yer 'tonitruendum malum?' Sure an' ye
made me fairly profeen wid yer talk, so ye did."
"Well, I dare say," said Tozer, candidly —
" I dare say 'tain't onlikely that J did introduce
one or two Americanisms in the Latin ; but
then, you know, I ain't been in practice."
The priest now brought chairs for his vis
itors, and, sitting thus in the church, they told
him about their adventures, and entreated him
to do something for them. To all this the
priest listened with thoughtful attention, and
when they were done he at once promised to
find horses for them which would draw the car
riages to this hamlet or to the next town.
Ethel did not think Lady Dalrymple could go
further than this place, and the priest offered
to find some accommodations.
He then left them, and in about half an
hour he returned with two or three peasants,
each of whom had a horse.
" They'll be able to bring the leeclies," said the
priest, "and haul the impty wagonsaftherthim.'
"I think, miss," said Tozer, "that you'd
better stay here. It's too far for you to walk.'
" Sure an' there's no use in the wide wurrulJ
for you to be goin' back," said the priest to
Ethel. "You can't do any gud, an' you'd bet
ter rist till they come. Yer frind '11 be enough. '
Ethel at first thought of walking back, but
finally she saw that it would be quite useless,
and so she resolved to remain and wait for her
aunt. So Tozer went off with the men and
the horses, and the priest asked Ethel all about
the affair once more. Whatever his opinions
were, he said nothing.
While he was talking there came a man to
the door who beckoned him out. He went out,
and was gone for some time. He came back
at last, looking very serious.
" I've just got a missage from thim," said he.
' ' A message, " exclaimed Ethel, " from them ?
What, from Girasole ?"
" Yis. They want a praste, and they've sint
for me."
"A priest?"
"Yis ; an' they want a maid-servant to wait
on the young leedies ; and they want thim im-
majitly ; an' I'll have to start off soon. There's
a man dead among thim that wants to be put
undherground to-night, for the rist av thim
are goin' off in the mornin' ; an' accordin' to all
I hear, I wouldn't wondher but what I'd be
wanted for somethin' else afore mornin'."
" Oh, my God !" cried Ethel ; " they're going
to kill him, then!"
" Kill him ! Kill who ? Sure an' it's not
killin' they want me for. It's the other — it's
marryin'."
"Marrying?" cried Ethel. "Poor, darling
Minnie ! Oh, you can not — you will not marry
them ?"
" Sure an' I don't know but it's the best thing
I can do — as things are," said the priest.
"Oh, what shall I do! what shall I do!"
moaned Ethel.
"Well, ye've got to bear up, so ye have.
There's throubles for all of us, an' lots av thira
too ; an' more'n some av us can bear."
Ethel sat in the darkest and bitterest grief
for some time, a prey to thoughts and fears that
were perfect agony to her.
At last a thought came to her which made
her start, and look up, and cast at the priest a
look full of wonder and entreaty. The priest
watched her with the deepest sympathy visible
on his face.
" We must save them !" she cried.
" Sure an' it's me that made up me moind to
that same," said the priest, " only I didn't want
to rise yer hopes."
"We must save them," said Ethel, with
strong emphasis.
" We f What can you do ?"
Ethel got up, walked to the church door,
looked out, came back, looked anxiously all
around, and then, resuming her seat, she drew
close to the priest, and began to whisper, long
and anxiouslv.
CHAPTER XXVI.
THE AVENGER OK THE TRACK.
WHEN Dacres had sprung aside into the woods
in the moment of his fierce rush upon Girasole,
he had been animated by a sudden thought
that escape for himself was possible, and that
it would be more serviceable to his friends.
96
THE AMERICAN BARON.
Thus, then, he had bounded into the woods, and
with swift steps he forced his way among the
trees deeper and deeper into the forest. Some
of the brigands had given chase, but without
effect. Dacres's .superior strength and agility
gave him the advantage, and his love of life
was a greater stimulus than their thirst for
vengeance. In addition to this the trees gave
every assistance toward the escape of a fugi
tive, while they threw every impediment in the
way of a pursuer. The consequence was,
therefore, that Dacres soon put a great distance
between himself and his pursuers, and, what is
more, he ran in such a circuitous route that
they soon lost all idea of their own locality, and
had not the faintest idea where he had gone.
In this respect, however, Dacres himself was
not one whit wiser than they, for he soon found
himself completely bewildered in the mazes of
the forest; and when at length the deep si
lence around gave no further sound of pursuers,
he sank down to take breath, with no idea what
ever in what direction the road lay.
After a brief rest he arose and plunged deep
er still into the forest, so as to put an addition
al distance between himself and any possible
pursuit. He at length found himself at the
foot of a precipice about fifty feet in height,
which was deep in the recesses of the forest.
Up this he climbed, and found a mossy place
among the trees at its top, where he could find
rest, and at the same time be in a more favor
able position either for hearing or seeing any
signs of approaching pursuers.
Here, then, he flung himself down to rest,
and soon buried himself among thoughts of the
most exciting kind. The scene which he had
just left was fresh in his mind, and amidst all
the fury of that strife there rose most promi
nent in his memory the form of the two ladies,
Minnie standing calm and unmoved, while Mrs.
Willoughby was convulsed with agitated feel
ing. What was the cause of that ? Could it be
possible that his wife had indeed contrived such a
plot with the Italian ? Was it possible that she
had chosen this way of striking two blows, by
one of which she could win her Italian, and by
the other of which she could get rid of himself,
her husband? Such had been his conjecture
during the fury of the fight, and the thought
had roused him up to his Berserker madness ;
but now, as it recurred again, he saw other
things to shake his full belief. Her agitation
seemed too natural.
Yet, on the other hand, he asked himself,
why should she not show agitation ? She was
a consummate actress. She could show on her
beautiful face the softness and the tenderness
of an angel of light while a demon reigned in
her malignant heart. Why should she not
choose this way of keeping up appearances?
She had betrayed her friends, and sought her
husband's death ; but would she wish to have
her crime made manifest ? Not she. It was
for this, then, that she wept and clung to the
child-angel.
Such thoughts as these were not at all adapt
ed to give comfort to his mind, or make his
rest refreshing. Soon, by such fancies, he kin
dled anew his old rage, and his blood rose to
fever heat, so that inaction became no longer
tolerable. He had rest enough. He started
up, and looked all around, and listened attent
ively. No sound arose and no sight appeared
which at all excited suspicion. He determined
to set forth once more, he scarcely knew where.
He had a vague idea of finding his way back
to the road, so as to be able to assist the ladies,
together with another idea, equally ill defined,
of coming upon the brigands, finding the Ital
ian, and watching for an opportunity to wreak
vengeance upon this assassin and his guilty
partner.
He drew his knife once more from a leathern
sheath on the inside of the breast of his coat,
into which he had thrust it some time before,
and holding this he set forth, watchfully and
warily. On the left side of the precipice the
ground sloped down, and at the bottom of this
there was a narrow valley. It seemed to him
that this might be the course of some spring
torrent, and that by following its descent he
might come out upon some stream. With this
intention he descended to the valley, and then
walked along, following the descent of the
ground, and keeping himself as much as pos
sible among the thickest growths of the trees.
The ground descended very gradually, and
the narrow valley wound along among rolling
hills that were covered with trees and brush. As
he confined himself to the thicker parts of this,
his progress was necessarily slow ; but at the
end of that turn he saw before him unmistak
able signs of the neighborhood of some open
place. Before him he saw the sky in such a
way that it showed the absence of forest trees.
He now moved on more cautiously, and, quit
ting the valley, he crept up the hill-slope among
the brush as carefully as possible, until he was
at a sufficient height, and then, turning toward
the open, he crept forward from cover to cover.
At length he stopped. A slight eminence was
before him, beyond which all was open, yet
concealed from his view. Descending the slope
a little, he once more advanced, and finally
emerged at the edge Of the forest.
He found himself upon a gentle declivity.
Immediately in front of him lay a lake, circu
lar in shape, and about a mile in diameter, em
bosomed among wooded hills. At first he saw
no signs of any habitation ; but as his eyes wan
dered round he saw upon his right, about a
quarter of a mile away, an old stone house, and
beyond this smoke curling up from among the
forest trees on the borders of the lake.
The scene startled him. It was so quiet, so
lonely, and so deserted that it seemed a fit
place for a robber's haunt. Could this be in
deed the home of his enemies, and had he
thus so wonderfully come upon them in the
very midst of their retreat? He believed that
it was so. A little further observation showed
THE AMERICAN BARON.
97
figures among the trees moving to and fro, and
soon he distinguished faint traces of smoke in
other places, which he had not seen at first,
as though there were more fires than one.
Dacres exulted with a fierce and vengeful
joy over this discovery. He felt now not like
the fugitive, but rather the pursuer. He look
ed down upon this as the tiger looks from his
jungle upon some Indian village. His foes
were numerous, but he was concealed, and his1
presence unsuspected. He grasped his dag
ger with a firmer clutch, and then pondered
for a few minutes on what he had better do
next.
One thing was necessary first of all, and that
was to get as near as he possibly could without
discovery. A slight survey of the situation
showed him that he might venture much near
er ; and his eye ran along the border of the lake
which lay between him and the old house, and
he saw that it was all covered over with a thick
fringe of trees and brush-wood. The narrow
valley along which he had come ended at the
shore of the lake just below him on his right,
and beyond this the shore arose again to a
height equal to where he now was. To gain
that opposite height was now his first task.
Before starting he looked all around, so as to
be sure that he was not observed. Then he
went back for some distance, after which he
descended into the valley, crouching low, and
crawling stealthily among the brush -wood.
Moving thus, he at length succeeded in reaching
the opposite slope without appearing to have at
tracted any attention from any pursuers. Up
this slope he now moved as carefully as ever,
not relaxing his vigilance one jot, but, if possi
ble, calling into play even a larger caution as
he found himself drawing nearer to those whom
he began to regard as his prey.
Moving up this slope, then, in this way, he
at length attained the top, and found himself
here among the forest trees and underbrush.
They were here even denser than they were on
the place which he had just left. As he moved
along he saw no indications that they had been
traversed by human footsteps. Every thing
gave indication of an unbroken and undisturb
ed solitude. After feeling his way along here
with all the caution- which he could exercise,
lie finally ventured toward the shore of the lake,
and found himself able to go to the very edge
without coming to any open space or crossing
any path.
On looking forth from the top of the bank he
found that he had not only drawn much nearer
to the old house, but that he could see the whole
line of shore. He now saw that there were some
men by the door of the house, and began to sus
pect that this was nothing else than the head
quarters and citadel of the brigands. The sight
of the shore now showed him that he could ap
proach very much nearer, and unless the brig
ands, or whoever they were, kept scouts out, he
would be able to reach a point immediately
overlooking the house, from which he could
G
survey it at his leisure. To reach this point
became now his next aim.
The wood being dense, Dacres found no more
difficulty in passing through this than in travers
ing what lay behind him. The caution which
he exercised here was as great as ever, and his
progress was as slow, but as sure. At length
he found himself upon the desired point, and,
crawling cautiously forward to the shore, he
looked down upon the very old house which he
had desired to reach.
The house stood close by the lake, upon a
sloping bank which lay below. It did not seem
to be more than fifty yards away. The doors
and windows were gone. Five or six ill-look
ing fellows were near the doorway, some sprawl
ing on the ground, others lolling and lounging
about. One glance at the men was sufficient
to assure him that they were the brigands, and
also to show him that they kept no guard or
scout or outpost of any kind, at least in this
direction.
Here, then, Dacres lay and watched. He
could not wish for a better situation. With his
knife in his hand, ready to defend himself in
case of need, and his whole form concealed
perfectly by the thick underbrush into the
midst of which he had crawled, he peered forth
through the overhanging leaves, and watched
in breathless interest. From the point where
he now was he could see the shore beyond the
house, where the smoke was rising, lie could
now see that there were no less than four dif
ferent columns of smoke ascending from as
many fires. He saw as many as twenty or
thirty figures moving among the trees, made
conspicuous by the bright colors of their cos
tumes. They seemed to be busy about some
thing which he could not make out.
Suddenly, while his eye roved over the scene,
it was struck by some fluttering color at the
open window of the old house. He had not
noticed this before. He now looked at it at
tentively. Before long he saw a figure cross the
window and return. It was a female figure.
The sight of this revived all that agitation
which he had felt before, but which had been
calmed during the severe efforts which he had
been putting forth. There was but one thought
in his mind, and but one desire in his heart.
His wife.
He crouched low, with a more feverish dread
of discovery at this supreme moment, and a
fiercer thirst for some further revelation which
might disclose what he suspected. His breath
ing came thick and hard, and his brow lowered
gloomily over his gleaming eyes.
He waited thus for some minutes, and the
figure passed again.
He still watched.
Suddenly a figure appeared at the window.
It was a young girl, a blonde, with short gold
en curls. The face was familiar indeed to
him. Could he ever forget it? There it was
full before him, turned toward him, as though
that one, by some strange spiritual sympathy,
98
THE AMERICAN BARON.
was aware of his presence, and was thus turn
ing toward him this mute appeal. Her face
was near enough for its expression to be visi
ble. He could distinguish the childish face,
with its soft, sweet innocence, and he knew
that upon it there was now that piteous, plead
ing, beseeching look which formerly had so
thrilled his heart. And it was thus that Da-
cres saw his child-angel.
A prisoner, turning toward him this appeal !
What was the cause, and what did the Italian
want of this innocent child? Such was his
thought. What could his fiend of a wife gain
by the betrayal of that angelic being ? Was it
possible that even her demon soul could com
pass iniquity like this? He had thought that
he had fathomed her capacity for malignant
wickedness ; but the presence here of the child-
angel in the power of these miscreants showed
him that this capacity was indeed unfathoma
ble. At this sudden revelation of sin so enor
mous his very soul turned sick with horror.
He watched, and still looked with an anxiety
that was increasing to positive pain.
And now, after one brief glance, Minnie drew
back into the room. There was nothing more
to be seen for some time, but at last another
figure appeared.
He expected this ; he was waiting for it ; he
was sure of it ; yet deep down in the bottom
of his heart there was a hope that it might not
be so, that his suspicions, in this case at least,
might be unfounded. But now the proof came ;
it was made manifest here before his eyes, and
in the light of day.
In spite of himself a low groan escaped him.
He buried his face in his hands and shut out
the sight. Then suddenly he raised his head
again and stared, as though in this face there
was an irresistible fascination by which a spell
was thrown over him.
It was the face of Mrs. Willoughby — youth
ful, beautiful, and touching in its tender grace.
Tears were now in those dark, luminous eyes,
but they were unseen by him. Yet he could
mark the despondency of her attitude ; he could
see a certain wild way of looking up and down
and in all directions ; he noted how her hands
grasped the window-ledge as if for support.
And oh, beautiful demon angel, he thought,
if you could but know how near you are to the
avenger ! Why are you so anxious, my demon
wife ? Are you impatient because your Italian
is delaying? Can you not live for five seconds
longer without him? Are you looking in all
directions to see where he is ? Don't fret ; he'll
soon be here.
And now there came a confirmation of his
thoughts. He was not surprised ; he knew it ;
he suspected it. It was all as it should be.
Was it not in the confident expectation of this
that he had come here with his dagger — on
their trail?
It was Girasole.
He came from the place, further along the
shore, where the brigands were around their
fires. He was walking quickly. He had a
purpose. It was with a renewed agony that
Dacres watched his enemy — coming to visit his
wife. The intensity of that thirst for venge
ance, which had now to be checked until a bet
ter opportunity, made his whole frame tremble.
A wild desire came to him then and there to
bound down upon his enemy, and kill and be
killed in the presence of his wife. But the oth
er brigands deterred him. These men might
interpose and save the Italian, and make him a
prisoner. No ; he must wait till he could meet
his enemy on something like equal terms — when
he could strike a blow that would not be in vain.
Thus he overmastered himself.
He saw Girasole enter the house. He watch
ed breathlessly. The time seemed long in
deed. He could not hear any thing ; the con
versation, if there was any, was carried on in a
low tone. He could not see any thing ; those
who conversed kept quiet ; no one passed in
front of the window. It was all a mystery, and
this made the time seem longer. At length
Dacres began to think that Girasole would
not go at all. A long time passed. Hours
went away, and still Girasole did not quit the
house.
It was now sundown. Dacres had eaten
nothing since morning, but the conflict of pas
sion drove away all hunger or thirst. The ap
proach of darkness was in accordance with his
own gloomy wishes. -Twilight in Italy is short.
Night would soon be over all.
The house was on the slope of the bank. At
the corner nearest him the house was sunk into
the ground in such a way that it looked as
though one might climb into the upper story
window. As Dacres looked he made up hU
mind to attempt it. By standing here on tip
toe he could catch the upper window-ledge
with his hands. He was strong. He was tall.
His enemy was in the house. The hour was
at hand. He was the man.
Another hour passed.
All was still.
There was a flickering lamp in the hall, but
the men seemed to be asleep.
Another hour passed.
There was no noise.
Then Dacres ventured down. He moved
slowly and cautiously, crouching low, and thus
traversing the intervening space.
He neared the house and touched it. Be
fore him was the window of the lower story.
Above him was the window of the upper story.
He lifted up his hands. They could reach the
window-ledge.
He put his long, keen knife between his teeth,
and caught at the upper window-ledge. Ex
erting all his strength, he raised himself up so
high that he could fling one elbow over. For
a moment he hung thus, and waited to take
breath and listen.
There was a rush below. Half a dozen shad
owy forms surrounded him. He had been seen.
He had been trapped.
THE AMERICAN BARON.
He dropped down and, seizing his knife,
struck right and left.
In vain. He was hurled to the ground and
bound tight.
CHAPTER XXVH.
FACE TO FACE.
HAWBCRY, on his capture, had been at once
taken into the woods, and led and pushed on
by no gentle hands. He had thus gone on un
til he had found himself by that same lake which
others of the party had come upon in the vari
ous ways which have been described. Toward
this lake he was taken, until finally his party
reached the old house, which they entered. It
has already been said that it was a two-story
house. It was also of stone, and strongly
built. The door was in the middle of it, and
rooms were on each side of the hall. The in
terior plan of the house was peculiar, for the
hall did not run through, but consisted of a
square room, and the stone steps wound spi
rally from the lower hall to the upper one.
There were three rooms up stairs, one taking
up one end of the house, which was occupied
by Mrs. Willoughby and Minnie; another in
the rear of the house, into which a door opened
from the upper hall, close by the head of the
stairs; and a third, which was opposite the
room first mentioned.
Hawbury was taken to this house, and led
np stairs into this room in the rear of the house.
At the end farthest from the door he saw a
heap of straw with a few dirty rugs upon it.
In the wall a beam was set, to which an iron
ring was fastened. He was taken toward this
bed, and here his legs were bound together, and
the rope that secured them was run around the
iron ring so as to allow of no more motion than
a few feet. Having thus secured the prisoner,
the men left him to his own meditations.
The room was perfectly bare of furniture,
nothing being in it but the straw and the dirty
rugs. Hawbury could not approach to the
windows, for he was bound in a way which
prevented that. In fact, he could not move in
any direction, for his arms and legs were fast
ened in such a way that he could scarcely raise
himself from where he was sitting. He there
fore was compelled to remain in one position,
and threw himself down upon the straw on his
side, with his face to the wall, for he found that
position easier than any other. In this way he
lay for some time, until at length he was roused
by the sound of footsteps ascending the stairs.
Several people were passing his room. He
heard the voice of Girasole. He listened with
deep attention. For some time there was no
reply. At length there was the sound of a
woman's voice — clear, plain, and unmistaka
ble. It was a fretful voice of complaint. Gi
rasole was trying to answer it. After a time
Girasole left. Then all was still. Then Gi
rasole returned. Then there was a clattering
noise on the stairs, and the bumping of some
heavy weight, and the heavy breathing of men.
Then he heard Girasole say something, after
which arose Minnie's voice, close by, as though
she was in the hall, and her words were, "Oh,
take it away, take it away!" followed by long
reproaches, which Hawbury did not fully under
stand.
This showed him that Minnie, at least, was
a prisoner, and in this house, and in the ad
joining room, along with some one whom he
rightly supposed was Mrs. Willoughby.
After this there was a further silence for
some time, which at last was broken by fresh
sounds of trampling and shuffling, together with
the confused directions of several voices all
speaking at once. Hawbury listened, and
turned on his couch of straw so as to see any
thing which presented itself. The clatter and
the noise approached nearer, ascending the
stairs, until at last he saw that they were en
tering his room. Two of the brigands came
first, carrying something carefully. In a few
moments the burden which they bore was re
vealed.
It was a rude litter, hastily made fnom bush
es fastened together. Upon this lay the dead
body of a man, his white face upturned, and
his limbs stiffened in the rigidity of death.
Hawbury did not remember very distinctly any
of the particular events of his confused struggle
with the brigands ; but he was not at all sur
prised to see that there had been one of the
ruffians sent to his account. The brigands who
carried in their dead companion looked at the
captive with a sullen ferocity and a scowling
vengefulness, which showed plainly that they
would demand of him a reckoning for their
comrade's blood if it were only in their power.
But they did not delay, nor did they make
any actual demonstrations to Hawbury. They
placed the corpse of their comrade upon the floor
in the middle of the room, and then went out.
The presence of the corpse only added to the
gloom of Hawbury's situation, and he once
more turned his face to the wall, so as to shut
out the sight. Once more he gave himself up
to his own thoughts, and so the time passed
slowly on. He heard no sounds now from the
room where Miss Fay was confined. He heard
no noise from the men below, and could not tell
whether they were still guarding the door, or
had gone away. Various projects came to
him, foremost among which was the idea of
escaping. Bribery seemed the only possible
way. There was about this, however, the same
difficulty which Mrs. Willoughby had found —
his ignorance of the language. He thought
that this would be an effectual bar to any com
munication, and saw no other alternative than
to wait Girasole's pleasure. It seemed to him
that a ransom would be asked, and he felt sure,
from Girasole's offensive manner, that the ran
som Avould be large. But there was no help
for it. He felt more troubled about Miss Fay,
; for Girasole's remarks about her seemed to
100
THE AMERICAN BARON.
point to views of his own which were incompat
ible with her liberation.
In the midst of these reflections another noise
arose below. It was a steady tramp of two or
three men walking. The noise ascended the
stairway, and drew nearer and nearer. Haw-
bury turned once more, and saw two men enter-
ingthe room, carrying between them a box about
six feet long and eighteen inches or two feet
wide. It was coarsely but strongly made, and
was undoubtedly intended as a coffin for the
corpse of the brigand. The men put the coffin
down against the wall and retired. After a
few minutes they returned again with the coffin
lid. They then lifted the dead body into the
coffin, and one of them put the lid in its place
and secured it with half a dozen screws. Aft
er this Hawbury was once more left alone. He
found this far more tolerable, for now he had
no longer before his very eyes the abhorrent
sight of the dead body. Hidden in its coffin,
it no longer gave offense to his sensibilities.
Once more, therefore, Hawbury turned his
thoughts toward projects of escape, and dis
cussed in his mind the probabilities for and
against.
The day had been long, and longer still did
it seem to the captive as hour after hour passed
slowly by. He could not look at his watch,
which his captors had spared ; but from the
shadows as they fell through the windows, and
from the general appearance of the sky, he
knew that the close of the day was not far off".
He began to wonder that he was left so long
alone and in suspense, and to feel impatient to
know the worst as to his fate. Why did not
some of them come to tell him ? Where was
Girasole ? Was he the chief? Were the brig
ands debating about his fate, or were they thus
leaving him in suspense so as to make him de
spondent and submissive to their terms ? From
all that he had ever heard of brigands and their
ways, the latter seemed not unlikely ; and this
thought made him see the necessity of guard
ing himself against being too impatient for free
dom, and too compliant with any demands of
theirs.
From these thoughts he was at last roused
by footsteps which ascended the stairs. He
turned and looked toward the door. A man
entered.
It was Girasole.
He entered slowly, with folded arms, and
coming about half-way, he stood and surveyed
the prisoner in silence. Hawbury, with a sud
den effort, brought himself up to a sitting pos
ture, and calmly surveyed the Italian.
" Well," asked Hawbury, " I should like to
know how long you intend to keep up this sort
of thing ? What are you going to do about it ?
Name your price, man, and we'll discuss it, and
settle upon something reasonable."
" My price ?" repeated Girasole, with pecul
iar emphasis.
" Yes. Of course I understand you fellows.
It's your trade, you know. You've caught me,
and, of course, you'll try to make the best of
me, and all that sort of thing. So don't keep
me waiting."
"Inglis milor," said Girasole, with a sharp,
quick accent, his face flushing up as he spoke
— "Inglis milor, dere is no price as you mean,
an' no ransom. De price is one dat you will
not wis to pay."
"Oh, come, now, my good fellow, really you
must remember that I'm tied up, and not in a
position to be chaffed. Bother your Italian
humbug! Don't speak in these confounded
figures of speech, you know, but say up and
down — how much?"
" De brigands haf talk you ovair, an* dey will
haf no price."
" What the devil is all that rot about ?"
"Dey will haf youair blood."
"My blood?"
"Yes."
"And pray, my good fellow, what good is
that going to do them ?"
"It is vengeance," said Girasole.
"Vengeance? Pooh! Nonsense! What
rot ! What have I ever done ?"
" Dat — dere — his blood, " said Girasole, point
ing to the coffin.
" What ! that scoundrel ? Why, man alive,
are you crazy ? That was a fair stand-up fight.
That is, it was two English against twenty Ital
ians, if you call that fair ; but perhaps it is.
His blood! By Jove! Cool, that! Come,
I like it."
"An' more," said Girasole, who now grew
more excited. " It is not de brigand who con
demn you ; it is also me. I condemn you."
"You?"' said Hawbury, elevating his eye
brows in some surprise, and fixing a cool stare
upon Girasole. "And what the devil's this
row about, I should like to know? I don't
know you. What have you against me?"
"Inglis milor," cried Girasole, who was
stung to the quick by a certain indescribable
yet most irritating superciliousness in Haw
bury 's tone — "Inglis milor, you sail see what
you sail soffair. You sail die! Dere is no
hope. You are condemn by de brigand. You
also are condemn by me, for you insult me."
"Well, of all the beastly rot I ever heard,
this is about the worst ! What do you mean
by all this infernal nonsense ? Insult you !
What would I insult you for? Why, man
alive, you're as mad as a March hare! If I
thought you were a gentleman, I'd — by Jove,
I will, too ! See here, you fellow: I'll fight
you for it — pistols, or any thing. Come, now.
I'll drop all considerations of rank. I'll treat
you as if you were a real count, and not a sham
one. Come, now. What do you say ? Shall
we have it out? Pistols — in the woods there.
You've got all your infernal crew around you,
you know. Well? What? You won't? By
Jove!"
Girasole's gesture showed that he declined
the proposition.
" Inglis milor," said he, with a venomous
THE AMERICAN BARON.
101
"iNGLIS MILOB, I BALL UAF YOUAIB LIFE."
glitter in his eyes, "I sail haf youair life — wis
de pistol, but not in de duello. I sail blow your
brain out myself."
"Blow and be hanged, then!" said Haw-
bury.
And with these words he fell back on his
straw, and took no further notice of the Italian.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
TORN ASUNDER.
WHEN Dacres made his attempt upon the
house he was not so unobserved as he supposed
himself to be. Minnie and Mrs. Willotighby
happened at that time to be sitting on the floor
by the window, one on each side, and they were
looking out. They had chosen the seat as
affording some prospect of the outer world.
There was in Mrs. Willoughby a certain in
stinctive feeling that if any rescue came, it
would come from the land side ; and, therefore,
though the hope was faint indeed, it neverthe
less was sufficiently well defined to inspire her
with an uneasy and incessant vigilance. Thus,
then, she had seated herself by the window,
and Minnie had taken her place on the oppo
site side, and the two sisters, with clasped
hands, sat listening to the voices of the night.
At length they became aware of a movement
upon the bank just above them and lying op
posite. The sisters clasped one another's hands
more closely, and peered earnestly through the
gloom. It was pretty dark, and the forest
threw down a heavy shadow, but still their
eyes were by this time accustomed to the dark,
and they could distinguish most of the objects
there. Among these they soon distinguished
a moving figure ; but what it was, whether man
or beast, they could not make out.
This moving figure was crawling down the
bank. There was no cover to afford conceal
ment, and it was evident that he was trusting
altogether to the concealment of the darkness.
It was a hazardous experiment, and Mrs. Wil
loughby trembled in suspense.
Minnie, however, did not tremble at all, nor
102
THE AMERICAN BARON.
was the suspense at all painful. When Mrs.
Willoughby first cautiously directed her atten
tion to it in a whisper, Minnie thought it was
some animal.
"Why, Kitty dear," she said, speaking back
in a whisper, "why, it's an animal; I wonder
if the creature is a wild beast. I'm sure I think
it's very dangerous, and no doors or windows.
But it's always the way. He wouldn't give me
a chair ; and so I dare say I shall be eaten up
by a bear before morning."
Minnie gave utterance to this expectation
without the slightest excitement, just as though
the prospect of becoming food for a bear was
one of the very commonest incidents of her
life.
" Oh, I don't think it's a bear."
" Well, then, it's a tiger or a lion, or perhaps
a wolf. I'm sure / don't see what difference
it makes what one is eaten by, when one has to
be eaten."
"It's a man!" said Mrs. Willoughby, tremu
lously.
" A man ! — nonsense, Kitty darling. A man
walks ; he doesn't go on all-fours, except when
he is very, very small. "
"Hush! it's some one coming to help us.
Watch him, Minnie dear. Oh, how danger
ous !"
" Do you really think so ?" said Minnie, with
evident pleasure. "Now that is really kind.
But I wonder who it can be ?"
Mrs. Willoughby squeezed her hand, and
made no reply. She was watching the slow
and cautious movement of the shadowy figure.
" He's coming nearer ! " said she, tremulously.
Minnie felt her sister's hand throb at the
quick movement of her heart, and heard her
short, quick breathing.
"Who can it be, I wonder?" said Minnie,
full of curiosity, but without any excitement at
all.
" Oh, Minnie !"
"What's the matter, darling?"
"It's so terrible."
"What?"
"This suspense. Oh, I'm so afraid !"
" Afraid ! Why, I'm not afraid at all."
"Oh! he'll be caught."
"No, he won't," said Minnie, confidently.
"I knew he'd come. They always do. Don't
be afraid that he'll be caught, or that he'll fail.
They never fail. They always will save me.
Wait till your life has been saved as often as
mine has, Kitty darling. Oh, I expected it all !
I was thinking a little while ago he ought to be
here soon."
"He! Who?"
"Why, any person ; the person who is going
to save me this time. I don't know, of course,
who he is ; some horrid man, of course. And
then — oh dear! — I'll have it all over again.
He'll carry me away on his back, and through
those wretched woods, and bump me against
the trees and things. Then he'll get me to the
road, and put me on a horrid old horse, and
gallop away. And by that time it will be morn
ing. And then he'll propose. And so there'll
be another. And I don't know what I shall
do about it. Oh dear!"
Mrs. Willoughby had not heard half of this.
All her soul was intent upon the figure outside.
She only pressed her sister's hand, and gave a
warning " Hus-s-s-h !"
"I know one thing I do wish," said Minnie.
Her sister made no reply.
" I do wish it would turn out to be that nice,
dear, good, kind Rufus K. Gunn. I don't want
any more of them. And I'm sure he's nicer
than this horrid Count, who wouldn't take the
trouble to get me even a chair. And yet he
pretends to be fond of me."
" Hus-s-s-h !" said her sister.
But Minnie was irrepressible.
"I don't want any horrid stranger. But,
oh, Kitty darling, it would be so awfully funny
if he were to be caught ! and then he couldnt
propose, you know."
By this time the figure had reached the
house. Minnie peeped over and looked down.
Then she drew back her head and sighed.
"Oh dear!" she said, in a plaintive tone.
"What, darling?"
" Why, Kitty darling, do you know he really
looks a little like that great, big, horrid man
that ran with me down the volcano, and then
pretended he was my dear papa. And here he
comes to save me again. Oh, what shall I do ?
Won't you pretend you're me, Kitty darling,
and please go yourself? Oh, ple-e-ease do !"
But now Minnie was interrupted by two
strong hands grasping the window-sill. A mo-
merit after a shadowy head arose above it.
Mrs. Willoughby started back, but through the
gloom she was able to recognize the strongly
marked face of Scone Dacres.
For a moment he stared through the dark
ness. Then he flung his elbow over.
There arose a noise below. There was a
rush. The figure disappeared from the win
dow. A furious struggle followed, in the midst
of which arose fierce oaths and deep breathings,
and the sound of blows. Then the straggle
subsided, and they heard footsteps tramping
heavily. They followed the sound into the
house. They heard men coming up the stairs
and into the hall outside. Then they all moved
into the front-room opposite theirs. After a
few minutes they heard the steps descending
the stairs. By this they judged that the pris
oner had been taken to that room which was
on the other side of the hall and in the front of
the house.
"There dies our last hope!" said Mrs. Wil
loughby, and burst into tears.
"I'm sure I don't see what you're crying
about," said Minnie. "You certainly oughtn't
to want me to be carried off again by that per
son. If he had me, he'd never give me up — es
pecially after saving me twice."
Mrs. Willoughby made no reply, and the sis
ters sat in silence for nearly an hour. They
THE AMERICAN BARON.
103
were then aroused by the approach of footsteps
which entered the house ; after which voices
were heard below.
Then some one ascended the stairs, and they
saw the flicker of a light.
It was Girasole.
He came into the room with a small lamp,
holding his hand in front of the flame. This
lamp he set down in a corner out of the draught,
and then turned to the ladies.
"Miladi," said Girasole, in a gentle voice,
"I am ver pained to haf to tella you dat it is
necessaire for you to separat dis night — till to-
niorra."
"To separate?" exclaimed Mrs. Willoughby.
" Only till to-morra, miladi. Den you sail
be togeder foravva. But it is now necessaire.
Dere haf ben an attemp to a rescue. I mus
guard again dis — an" it mus be done by a sep-
arazion. If you are togeder you might run.
Dis man was almos up here. It was only
chance dat I saw him in time."
"Oh, Sir," cried Mrs. Willonghby, "you
can not — you will not separate us. You can
not have the heart to. I promise most solemn
ly that we will not escape if you only leave us
together. "
Girasole shook his head.
"I can not," said he, firmly; "de mees is
too precious. I dare not. If you are prison-
aire se will not try to fly, an' so I secure her
de more ; but if you are togeder you will find
some help. You will bribe de men. I can
not trust dem."
" Oh, do not separate us. Tie us. Bind us.
Fasten us with chains. Fasten me with chains,
but leave me with her."
" Chains ? nonsance ; dat is impossibile.
Chains ? no, miladi. You sail be treat beau
tiful. No chain, no; notin but aifection — till
to-morra, an' den de mees sail be my wife.
De priest haf come, an' it sail be allaright to-
morra, an' you sail be wit her again. An' now
you haf to come away ; for if you do not be
pleasant, I sail not be able to 'low you to stay
to-morra wit de mees when se become my Con-
tessa."
Mrs. Willoughby flung her arms about her
sister, and clasped her in a convulsive embrace.
"Well, Kitty darling," said Minnie, "don't
cry, or you'll make me cry too. It's just what
we might have expected, you know. He's been
as unkind as he could be about the chair, and
of course he'll do all he can to tease me. Don't
cry, dear. You must go, I suppose, since that
horrid man talks and scolds so about it ; only be
sure to be back early ; but how I am ever to
pass the night here all alone and standing up,
I'm sure /don't know."
"Alone? Oh no," said Girasole. "Charm
ing mees, you sail not be alone ; I haf guard for
dat. I haf sent for a maid."
" But I don't want any of your horrid olc
maids. I want my own maid, or none at all.'
" Se sail be your own maid. I haf sent for
her."
"What, my own maid ? — Dowlas ?"
"I am ver sorry, but it is not dat one. It
s anoder — an Italian."
" Well, I think that is very unkind, when you
enow I can't speak a word of the language.
3ut you always do all you can to tease me.
. wish I had never seen you."
Girasole looked hurt.
" Charming mees," said he, " I will lay down
my life for you. "
"But I don't want you to lay down your life.
'. want Dowlas."
"And you sail haf Dowlas to-morra. An'
o-night you sail haf de Italian maid."
"Well, I suppose I must," said Minnie, re
signedly.
" Miladi," said Girasole, turning to Mrs.
Willoughby, " I am ver sorry for dis leetle ac-
commodazion. De room where you mus go
s de one where I haf put de man dat try to
safe you. He is tied fast. You mus promis
you will not loose him. Haf you a knife ?"
"No," said Mrs. Willoughby, in a scarce au
dible tone.
" Do not mourn. You sail be able to talk to
de prisonaire and get consolazion. But come. "
With these words Girasole led the way out
nto the hall, and into the front-room on the
opposite side. He carried the lamp in his
hand. Mrs. Willoughby saw a figure lying at
he other end of the room on the floor. His
face was turned toward them, but in the dark
ness she could not see it plainly. Some straw
was heaped up in the corner next her.
"Dere," said Girasole, "is your bed. lam
sorra. Do not be trouble."
With this he went away.
Mrs. Willoughby flung herself on her knees,
and b9wed her head and wept convulsively.
She heard the heavy step of Girasole as he
went down stairs. Her first impulse was to
rush back to her sister. But she dreaded dis
covery, and felt that disobedience would only
make her fate harder.
CHAPTER XXIX.
FOUND AT LAST.
IN a few moments Girasole came back and
entered Minnie's room. He was followed by a
woman who was dressed in the garb of an Ital
ian peasant girl. Over her head she wore a
hood to protect her from the night air, the limp
folds of which hung over her face. Minnie
looked carelessly at this woman and then at
Girasole.
"Charming mees," said Girasole, "I haf
brought you a maid for dis night. When we
leaf dis you sail haf what maid you wis."
" That horrid old fright !" said Minnie. " I
don't want her."
"You sail only haf her for dis night," said
Girasole. " You will be taken care for. "
"I suppose nobody cares for what / want,"
J04
THE AMERICAN BARON.
"ONE ABM WENT ABOUND 11EK NKOK."
said Minnie, " and I may as well speak to the
wall, for all the good it does."
Girasole smiled and bowed, and put his hand
on his heart, and then called down the stairs :
" Padre Patricio!"
A solid, firm step now sounded on the stairs,
and in a few moments the priest came up. Gi
rasole led the way into Hawbury's room. The
prisoner lay on his side. He was in a deep
sleep. Girasole looked in wonder at the sleep
er who was spending in this way the last hours
of his life, and then pointed to the coffin.
"Here," said he, in Italian, "is the body.
When the grave is dug they will tell you. You
must stay here. You will not be afraid to be
with the dead."
The priest smiled.
Girasole now retreated and went down stairs.
Soon all was still.
The Italian woman had been standing where
she had stopped ever since she first came into
the room. Minnie had not paid any attention
to her, but at last she noticed this.
"I with you wouldn't stand there in that
way. You really make me feel quite nervous.
And what with the dark, and not having any
light, and losing poor dear Kitty, and not hav
ing any chair to sit upon, really one's life is
scarce worth having. But all this is thrown
away, as you can't speak English — and how hor
rid it is to have no one to talk to."
The woman made no reply, but with a quiet,
stealthy step she drew near to Minnie.
" What do you want? You horrid creature,
keep away," said Minnie, drawing back in some
alarm.
"Minnie dear! "said the woman. "H-s-s-s-h!"
she added, in a low whisper.
Minnie started.
" Who are you ?" she whispered.
One arm went around her neck, and another
hand went over her mouth, and the woman
drew nearer to her.
"Not a word. H-s-s-s-h! I've risked my
life. The priest brought me."
" Why, my darling, darling love of an Ethel !"
said Minnie, who was overwhelmed with sur
prise.
"H-s-s-s-h!"
"But how can I h-s-s-s-h when I'm so per
fectly frantic with delight? Oh, you darling
pet!"
"H-s-s-s-h! Not another word. I'll be
discovered and lost."
" Well, dear, I'll speak very, very low. But
how did you come here ?"
"The priest brought me."
"The priest?"
" Yes. He was sent for, you know ; and I
thought I could help you, and he is going to
save you."
"He! Who?"
" The priest, you know."
" The priest ! Is he a Roman Catholic priest,
Ethel darling?"
" Yes, dear."
"And lie is going to save me this time, is
he?"
"I hope so, dear."
" Oh, how perfectly lovely that is ! and it was
so kind and thoughtful in you ! Now this is
really quite nice, for you know I've longed so to
be saved by a priest. These horrid men, you
know, all go and propose the moment they save
one's life ; but a priest can't, you know — no, not
if he saved one a thousand times over. Can
he now, Ethel darling ?"
"Oh no!" said Ethel, in a little surprise.
"But stop, darling. You really must not say
another word — no, not so much as a whisper —
for we certainly will be heard ; and don't notice
what I do, or the priest either, for it's very,
very important, dear. But you keep as still
as a little mouse, and wait till we are all
ready."
" Well, Ethel dear, I will ; but it's awfully
funny to see you here — and oh, such a funny
figure as you are!"
"H-s-s-s-h!"
Minnie relapsed into silence now, and Ethel
withdrew near to the door, where she stood and
listened. All was still. Down stairs there
was^io light and no sound. In the hall above
she could see nothing, and could not tell wheth
er any guards were there or not.
Hawbury's room was at the back of the house,
as has been said, and the door was just at the
top of the stairs. The door where Ethel was
standing was there too, and was close by the
other, so that she could listen and hear the
deep breathing of the sleeper. One or two
indistinct sounds escaped him from time to
THE AMERICAN BARON.
10c
time, and this was all that broke the deep still
ness.
She waited thus for nearly an hour, during
which all was still, and Minnie said not a word.
Then a shadowy figure appeared near her at
Hawbury's door, and a hand touched her shoul
der.
Not a word was said.
Ethel stole softly and noiselessly into Haw
bury's room, where the priest was. She could
see the two windows, and the priest indicated to
her the position of the sleeper.
Slowly and cautiously she stole over toward
him.
She reached the place.
She knelt by his side, and bent low over him.
Her lips touched his forehead.
The sleeper moved slightly, and murmured
some words.
"All fire," he murmured ; " fire — and flame.
It is a furnace before us. She must not die."
Then he sighed.
Ethel's heart beat wildly. The words that
he spoke told her where his thoughts were wan
dering. She bent lower; tears fell from her
eyes and upon his face.
"My darling," murmured the sleeper, "we
will land here. I will cook the fish. How pale !
Don't cry, dearest."
The house was all still. Not a sound arose.
Ethel still bent down and listened for more of
these words which were so sweet to her.
" Ethel !" murmured the sleeper, " where are
you? Lost! lost!"
A heavy sigh escaped him, which found an
echo in the heart of the listener. She touched
his forehead gently with one hand, and whis
pered,
"My lord!"
Hawbury started.
"What's this?" he murmured.
"A friend," said Ethel.
At this Hawbury became wide awake.
"Who are you?" he whispered, in a trem
bling voice. "For God's sake — oh, for God's
sake, speak again ! tell me !"
"Harry," said Ethel.
Hawbury recognized the voice at once.
A slight-rry escaped him, which was instant
ly suppressed, and then a torrent of whispered
words followed.
" Oh, my darling ! my darling ! my darling !
What is this ? How is this ? Is it a dream ?
Oh, am I awake ? Is it you ? Oh, my darling !
my darling ! Oh, if my arms were but free !"
Ethel bent over him, and passed her arm
around him till she felt the cords that bound
him. She had a sharp knife ready, and with
this she cut the cords. Hawbury raised him
self, without waiting for his feet to be freed,
and caught Ethel in his freed arms in a silent
embrace, and pressed her over and over again
to his heart.
Ethel with difficulty extricated herself.
"There's no time to lose," said she. "I
came to save you. Don't waste another mo
ment ; it will be too late. Oh, do not ! Oh,
wait!" she added, as Hawbury made another
effort to clasp her in his arms. " Oh, do what
I say, for my sake!"
She felt for his feet, and cut the rest of his
bonds.
" What am I to do ?" asked Hawbury, clasp
ing her close, as though he was afraid that he
would lose her again.
" Escape."
" Well, come ! I'll leap with you from the
window."
"You can't. The house and all around
swarms with brigands. They watch us all
closely."
"I'll fight my way through them."
"Then you'll be killed, and I'll die."
"Well, I'll do whatever you say."
"Listen, then. You must escape alone."
"What! and leave you ? Never!"
"I'm safe. I'm disguised, and a priest is
with me as my protector."
' ' How can you be safe in such a place as
this?"
"I am safe. Do not argue. There is no
time to lose. The priest brought me here, and
will take me away."
" But there are others here. I can't leave
them. Isn't Miss Fay a prisoner ? and anoth
er lady ?"
"Yes; but the priest and I will be able, I
hope, to liberate them. We have a plan."
" But can't I go with you and help you ?"
"Oh no! it's impossible. You could not.
We are going to take them away in disguise.
We have a dress. You couldn't be disguised."
"And must I go alone?"
"You must."
" I'll do it, then. Tell me what it is. But
oh, my darling! how can I leave you, and in
such a place as this ?"
" I assure you I am not in the slightest dan
ger."
" I shall feel terribly anxious. "
"H-s-s-s-h! no more of this. Listen now."
" Well ?"
' Ethel bent lower, and whispered in his ear,
in even lower tones than ever, the plan which
she had contrived.
CHAPTER XXX.
A DESPERATE PLAN.
ETHEL'S plan was hastily revealed. The po
sition was exceedingly perilous ; time was short,
and this was the only way of escape.
It was the priest who had concocted it, and
he had thought of it as the only plan by which
Hawbury's rescue could be effected. This in
genious Irishman had also formed another plan
for the rescue of Minnie and her sister, which
was to be attempted in due course of time.
Now no ordinary mode of escape was possi
ble for Hawbury. A strict watch was kept.
106
THE AMERICAN BARON.
The priest had noticed on his approach that
guards were posted in different directions in
such a way that no fugitive from the house
could elude them. He had also seen that the
guard inside the house was equally vigilant.
To leap from the window and run for it would
be certain death, for that was the very thing
which the brigands anticipated. To make a
sudden rush down the stairs was not possible,
for at the door below there were guards ; and
there, most vigilant of all, was Girasole himself.
The decision of the Irish priest was correct,
as has been proved in the case of Dacres, who,
in spite of all his caution, was observed and
captured. Of this the priest knew nothing, but
judged from what he himself had seen on his
approach to the house.
The plan of the priest had been hastily com
municated to Ethel, who shared his convictions
and adopted his conclusions. She also had
noticed the vigilance with which the guard had
been kept up, and only the fact that, a woman
had been sent for and was expected with the
priest had preserved her from discovery and its
consequences. As it was, however, no notice
Was taken of her, and her pretended character
was assumed to be her real one. Even Girasole
had scarcely glanced at her. A village peasant
was of no interest in his eyes. His only thought
was of Minnie, and the woman that the priest
brought was only used as a desperate effort to
show a desire for her comfort. After he had
decided to separate the sisters the woman was
of more importance ; but he had nothing to
say to her, and thus Ethel had effected her en
trance to Minnie's presence in safety, with the
result that has been described.
The priest had been turning over many proj
ects in his brain, but at last one suggested it
self which had originated in connection with the
very nature of his errand.
One part of that errand was that a man should
be conveyed out of the house and carried away
and left in a certain place. Now the man who
was thus to be carried out was a dead man, and
the certain place to which he was to be borne
and where he was to be left was the grave ; but
these stern facts did not at all deter the Irish
priest from trying to make use of this task that
lay before him for the benefit of Hawbury.
Here was a problem. A prisoner anxious
for escape, and a dead man awaiting burial ;
how were these two things to be exchanged so
that the living man might pass out without go
ing to the grave ?
The Irish priest puzzled and pondered and
grew black in the face with his efforts to get to
the solution of this problem, and at length
succeeded — to his own satisfaction, at any rate.
What is more, when he explained his plan to
Ethel, she adopted it. She started, it is true ;
she shuddered, she recoiled from it at first, but
finally she adopted it. Furthermore, she took
it upon herself to persuade Hawbury to fall in
with it.
So much with regard to Hawbury. For
Minnie and her sister the indefatigable priest
had already concocted a plan before leaving
home. This was the very commonplace plan
of a disguise. It was to be an old woman's ap
parel, and he trusted to the chapter of accidents
to make the plan a success. He noticed with
pleasure that some women were at the place,
and thought that the prisoners might be con
founded with them.
When at length Ethel had explained the plan
to Hawbury he made a few further objections,
but finally declared himself ready to carrv- it
out.
The priest now began to put his project into
execution. He had brought a screw -driver
with him, and with this he took out the screws
from the coffin one by one, as quietly as possi
ble.
Then the lid was lifted off, and Hawbury
arose and helped the priest to transfer the
corpse from the coffin to the straw. They then
put the corpse on its side, with the face to the
wall, and bound the hands behind it, and the
feet also. The priest then took Hawbury's
handkerchief and bound it around the head of
the corpse. One or two rugs that lay near were
thrown over the figure, so that it at length look
ed like a sleeping man.
Hawbury now got into the coffin and lay
down on his back at full length. The priest
had brought some bits of wood with him, and
these he put on the edge of the coffin in such a
way that the lid would be kept off at a distance
of about a quarter of an inch. Through this
opening Hawbury could have all the air that
was requisite for breathing.
Then Ethel assisted the priest to lift the lid
on.
Thus far all had been quiet ; but now a slight
noise was heard below. Some men were mov
ing. Ethel was distracted with anxiety, but
the priest was as cool as a clock. He whis
pered to her to go back to the room where she
belonged.
" Will you be able to finish it ?" she asked.
"Sure an' I will — only don't you be afther
stayin' here any longer."
At this Ethel stole back to Minnie's room,
and stood listening with a quick-beating heart.
But the priest worked coolly and dextrous-
ly. He felt for the holes to which the screws be
longed, and succeeded in putting in two of
them.
Then there was a noise in the hall below.
The priest began to put in the third screw.
There were footsteps on the stairs.
He screwed on.
Nearer and nearer came the steps.
The priest still kept to his task.
At last a man entered the room. Ethel,
who had heard all, was faint with anxiety. She
was afraid that the priest had not finished his
task.
Her fears were groundless.
Just as the foremost of the men entered the
room the priest finished screwing, and stood by
THE AMERICAN BARON.
107
the coffin, having slipped the screw-driver into
his pocket, as calm as though nothing had hap
pened. Three of the screws were in, and that
was as many as were needed.
The men brought no light with them, and
this circumstance was in the priest's favor.
"You've been keeping me waiting long,"
said the priest, in Italian.
"You may be glad it wasn't longer," said
one of them, in a sullen tone. "Where is it?"
"Here," said the priest.
The men gathered around the coffin, and
stooped down over it, one at each corner.
Then they raised it up. Then they carried it
out ; and soon the heavy steps of the men were
heard as they went down the stairs with their
burden.
Ethel still stood watching and listening.
As she listened she heard some one ascend
ing the stairs. New terror arose. Something
was wrong, and all would be discovered. But
the man who came up had no light, and that
was one comfort. She could not see who it was.
The man stopped for a moment in front of
Minnie's door, and stood so close to her that
she heard his breathing. It was quick and
heavy, like the breathing of a very tired or a very
excited man. Then he turned away and went
to the door of the front-room opposite. Here
he also stood for a few moments.
All was still.
Then he came back, and entered Hawbury's
room.
Now the crisis had come — the moment when
all might be discovered. And if so, they all
were lost. Ethel bent far forward and tried
to peer through the gloom. She saw the dark
figure of the new-comer pass by one of the win
dows, and by the outline she knew that it was
Girasole. He passed on into the shadow, and
toward the place where the straw was. She
could not see him any more.
Girasole stepped noiselessly and cautiously,
as though fearful of waking the sleeper. At
every step he paused and listened. The si
lence reassured him.
He drew nearer and nearer, his left hand
groping forward, and his right hand holding
a pistol. His movements were perfectly noise
less.
His own excitement was now intense, his
heart throbbed fiercely and almost painfully as
he approached his victim.
At last he reached the spot, and knelt on one
knee. He listened for a moment. There was
no noise and no movement on the part of the
figure before him.
In the gloom he could see the outline of that
figure plainly. It lay on its side, curled up in
the most comfortable attitude which could be
assumed, where arms and legs were bound.
"How soundly he sleeps!" thought Girasole.
He paused for a moment, and seemed to hes
itate ; but it was only for a moment. Then,
summing up his resolution, he held his pistol
close to the head of the figure, and fired.
"HE HELD nis PISTOL CLOSE TO THE BEAD, AXD FIRED."
The loud report echoed through the house.
A shriek came from Minnie's room, and a cry
came from Mrs. Willoughby, who sprang to
ward the hall. But Girasole came out and in
tercepted her.
"Eet ees notin," said he, in a tremulous
voice. " Eet ees all ovair. Eet ees only a
false alarm."
Mrs. Willoughby retreated to her room, and
Minnie said nothing. As for Ethel, the sus
pense with her had passed away as the report
of the pistol came to her ears.
Meanwhile the coffin was carried out of the
house, and the men, together with the priest,
walked on toward a place further up the shore
and on the outskirts of the woods. They reach
ed a place where a grave was dug.
At this moment a pistol-shot sounded. The
priest stopped, and the men stopped also. They
did not understand it. The priest did not
know the cause of the shot, but seeing the
alarm of the men he endeavored to excite their
fears. One of the men went back, and was
cursed by Girasole for his pains. So he re
turned to the grave, cursing every body.
The coffin was now lowered into the grave,
and the priest urged the men to go away and
let him finish the work ; but they refused.
The fellows seemed to have some affection for
their dead comrade, and wished to show it by
putting him underground, and doing the last
honors. So the efforts of the Irish priest,
though very well meant, and very urgent, and
very persevering, did not meet with that suc
cess which he anticipated.
Suddenly he stopped in the midst of the
burial service, which he was prolonging to the
utmost.
"Hark!" he cried, in Italian.
108
THE AMERICAN BARON.
"What?" they asked.
"It's a gun! It's an alarm!"
"There's no gun, and no alarm," said they.
All listened, but there was no repetition of
the sound, and the priest went on.
He had to finish it.
He stood trembling and at his wit's end.
Already the men began to throw in the earth.
But now there came a real alarm.
CHAPTER XXXI.
DISCOVERED.
THE report of the pistol had startled Minnie,
and for a moment had greatly agitated her.
The cry of Mrs. Willoughby elicited a response
from her to the effect that all was right, and
would, no doubt, have resulted in a conversa
tion, had it not been prevented by Girasole.
Minnie then relapsed into silence for a time,
and Ethel took a seat by her side on the floor,
for Minnie would not go near the straw, and
then the two interlocked their arms in an af
fectionate embrace.
"Ethel darling," whispered Minnie, "do
you know I'm beginning to get awfully tired of
this ?"
"I should think so, poor darling!"
" If I only had some place to sit on," said
Minnie, still reverting to her original griev
ance, "it wouldn't be so very bad, you know.
I could put up with not having a bed, or a sofa,
or that sort of thing, you know ; but really I
must say not to have any kind of a seat seems
to me to be very, very inconsiderate, to say the
least of it. "
"Poor darling!" said Ethel again.
"And now do you know, Ethel dear, I'm be
ginning to feel as though I should really like
to ran away from this place, if I thought that
horrid man wouldn't see me ?"
" Minnie darling," said Ethel, " that's the
very thing I came for, you know."
"Oh yes, I know! And that dear, nice,
good, kind, delightful priest! Oh, it was so
nice of you to think of a priest, Ethel dear !
I'm so grateful ! But when is he coming ?"
"Soon, I hope. But do try not to talk so."
"But I'm only whispering."
"Yes, but your whispers are too loud, and
I'm afraid they'll hear."
"Well, I'll try to keep still; but it's so aw
fully hard, you know, when one has so much to
say, Ethel dear."
Minnie now remained silent for about five
minutes.
" How did you say yon were going to take
me away ?" she asked at length.
"In disguise," said Ethel.
"But what disguise?"
"In an old woman's dress — but hu-s-s-s-sh !"
" But I don't want to be dressed up in an old
woman's clothes ; they make me such a figure.
Why, I'd be a perfect fright."
" Hu-s-s-s-sh ! Dear, dear Minnie, you're
talking too loud. They'll certainly hear us,"
said Ethel, in a low, frightened whisper.
"But do — do promise you won't take me in
an old woman's clothes !"
"Oh, there — there it is again!" said Ethel.
"Dear, dear Minnie, there's some one listen
ing."
"Well, I don't see what harm there is in
what I'm saying. I only wanted — "
Here there was a movement on the stairs
just outside. Ethel had heard a sound of that
kind two or three times, and it had given her
alarm ; but now Minnie herself heard it, and
stopped speaking.
And now a voice sounded from the stairs.
Some Italian words were spoken, and seemed
to be addressed to them. Of course they could
make no reply. The words were repeated,
with others, and the speaker seemed to be im
patient. Suddenly it flashed across Ethel's
mind that the speaker was Girasole, and that
the words were addressed to her.
Her impression was correct, and the speaker
was Girasole. He had heard the sibilant sounds
of the whispering, and, knowing that Minnie
could not speak Italian, it had struck him as
being a very singular thing that she should be
whispering. Had her sister joined her ? He
thought he would go up and see. So he went
up softly, and the whispering still went on. He
therefore concluded that the "Italian woman"
was not doing her duty, and that Mrs. Wil
loughby had joined her sister. This he would
not allow ; but as he had already been suffi
ciently harsh he did not wish to be more so,
and therefore he called to the " Italian woman."
"Hallo, you woman there! didn't I tell you
not to let the ladies speak to one another?"
Of course no answer was given, so Girasole
grew more angry still, and cried out again,
more imperatively :
" Why do you not answer me ? Where are
you ? Is this the way you watch ?"
Still there was no answer. Ethel heard, and
by this time knew what his suspicion was ; but
she could neither do nor say any thing.
" Come down here at once, you hag !"
But the "hag'' did not come down, nor did
she give any answer. The " hag" was trem
bling violently, and saw that all was lost. If
the priest were only here ! If she could only
have gone and returned with him ! What kept
him?
Girasole now came to the top of the stairs,
and spoke to Minnie.
" Charming mees, are you awake ?"
"Yes," said Minnie.
" Ees your sistaire wit you ?"
"No. How can she be with me, I should
like to know, when you've gone and put her in
some horrid old room ?"
" Ah ! not wit you ? Who are you whisper-
in' to, den ?"
Minnie hesitated.
"To my maid," said she.
THE AMERICAN BARON.
109
WHAT BIT YOU OOMB FOB?" — " FOB HEB.'
" Does de maid spik Inglis ?" asked Girasole.
"Yes, "said Minnie.
"Ah! I did not know eet. I mus have a
look at de contadina who spiks Inglis. Come
here, Italiana. You don't spik Italiano, I link.
Come here."
Ethel rose to her feet.
Girasole ran down, and came back after a
few minutes with a lamp. Concealment was
useless, and so Ethel did not cover her face
with the hood. It had fallen off when she was
sitting by Minnie, and hung loosely down her
shoulders from the strings which were around
her neck. Girasole recognized her at one
glance.
"Ah !" said he ; and then he stood thinking.
As for Ethel, now that the suspense was over
and the worst realized, her agitation ceased.
She stood looking at him with perfect calm.
" What dit you come for?" he asked.
"For her" said Ethel, making a gesture to
ward Minnie.
"What could you do wit her?"
"I could see her and comfort her."
" Ah ! an' you hope to make her escape. Ha,
ha ! ver well. You mus not complain eef you
haf to soffair de consequence. Aha ! an' so
de priest bring you here — ha ?"
Ethel was silent.
" Ah ! you fear to say — you fear you harma
de priest — ha?"
Minnie had thus far said nothing, but now
she rose and looked at Girasole, and then at
Ethel. Then she twined one arm around
Ethel's waist, and turned her large, soft, child
ish eyes upon Girasole.
"What do you mean," she said, "by always
coming here and teasing, and worrying, and
firing off pistols, and frightening people ? I'm
sure it was horrid enough for you to make me
come to this wretched place, when you know I
don't like it, without annoying me so. Why
did you go and take away poor darling Kitty ?
And what do you mean now, pray, by coming
here ? I never was treated so unkindly in my
life. I did not think that any one could be so
very, very rude."
" Charming mees," said Girasole, with a dep
recating air, "it pains me to do any ting dat you
do not like."
110
THE AMERICAN BARON.
"It don't pain you," said Minnie — "it don't
pain you at alL You're always teasing me.
You never do what I want you to. You wouldn't
even give me a chair."
"Alas, carissima mia, to-morra you sail haf
all! But dis place is so remote."
"It is not remote," said Minnie. "It's close
by roads and villages and things. Why, here
is Ethel ; she has been in a village where there
are houses, and people, and as many chairs as
she wants."
"Oh, mees, eef yon will but wait an' be
patient — eef you will but wait an' see how ten
der I will be, an' how I lof you."
"You don't love me," said Minnie, "one
bit. Is this love — not to give me a chair ? I
have been standing up till I am nearly ready to
drop. And you have nothing better than some
wretched promises. I don't care for to-mor
row ; I want to be comfortable to-day. You
won't let me have a single thing. And now
you come to tease me again, and frighten poor,
dear, darling Ethel."
"Eet ees because she deceif me — she come
wit a plot — she steal in here. Eef she had
wait, all would be well."
"You mustn't dare to touch her," said Min
nie, vehemently. " You shall leave her here.
She shall stay with me."
" I am ver pain — oh, very ; but oh, my an
gel — sweet — charming mees — eet ees dangaire
to my lof. She plot to take you away. An'
all my life is in yon. • Tink what I haf to do
to gain you !"
Minnie looked upon Girasole, with her large
eyes dilated with excitement and resentment.
"Yon are a horrid, horrid man," she ex
claimed. "lAateyou."
" Oh, my angel," pleaded Girasole, with deep
agitation, " take back dat word."
"I'm sorry you ever saved my life," said
Minnie, very calmly; "and I'm sorry I ever
saw you. I hate you."
' ' Ah, you gi f me torment. You do not mean
dis. You say once you lof me."
" / did not say I loved you. It was you who
said you loved me. I never liked you. And
I don't really see how I could be engaged to
you when I was engaged to another man be
fore. He is the only one whom I recognize
now. I don't know you at all. For I couldn't
be bound to two men ; could I, Ethel dear ?"
Ethel did not reply to this strange ques
tion.
But upon Girasole its effect was very great.
The manner of Minnie had been excessively
perplexing to him all through this eventful
day. If she had stormed and gone into a fine
frenzy he could have borne it. It would have
been natural. But she was perfectly uncon
cerned, and her only complaint was about tri
fles. Such trifles too! He felt ashamed to
think that he could have subjected to such an
noyances a woman whom he so dearly loved.
And now he was once more puzzled. Minnie
confronted him, looking at him fixedly, without
one particle of fear, with her large, earnest, in
nocent eyes fastened upon his — with the calm,
cool gaze of some high-minded child rebuking
a younger child-companion. This was a pro
ceeding which he was not prepared for. Be
sides, the child-innocence of her face and of
her words actually daunted him. She seemed
so fearless, because she was so innocent. She
became a greater puzzle than ever. He had
never seen much of her before, and this day's
experience of her had actually daunted him
and confounded him. And what was the worst
to him of all her words was her calm and sim
ple declaration, " I hate you !"
"Yes," said Minnie, thoughtfully, "it must
be so ; and dear Kitty would have said the
same, only she was so awfully prejudiced. And
I always thought he was so nice. Yes, I think
I really must be engaged to him. But as for
you," she said, turning full upon Girasole, "I
hate you ! "
Girasole's face grew white with rage and
jealousy.
"Aha!" said he. "You lof him. Aha!
An' you were engage to him. Aha !"
"Yes, I really think so."
"Aha! Well, listen," cried Girasole, in a
hoarse voice — " listen. He — he — de rival — de
one you say you are engage — he is dead ! "
And with this he fastened upon Minnie his
eyes that now gleamed with rage, and had an
expression in them that might have made Ethel
quiver with horror, but she did not, for she knew
that Girasole was mistaken on that point.
As for Minnie, she was not at all impressed
by his fierce looks.
" I don't think you really know what you're
talking about," said she ; " and you're very,
very unpleasant. At any rate, you are alto
gether in the wrong when you say he is dead."
"Dead! He is dead! I swear it!" cried
Girasole, whose manner was a little toned down
by Minnie's coolness.
"This is getting to be awfully funny, you
know," said Minnie. " I really think we don't
know what one another is talking about. I'm
sure / don't, and I'm sure he don't, either;
does he, Ethel darling ?"
"De Inglis milor," said Girasole. "He is
dead."
" Well, but I don't mean him at all," said
Minnie.
"Who — who?" gasped Girasole. "Who —
who — who ?"
"Why, the person I mean," said Minnie,
very placidly, "is Rufns K. Gunn."
Girasole uttered something like a howl, and
retreated.
CHAPTER XXXII.
UNDER ARREST.
GIRASOLE retreated half-way down the stairs,
and then he stopped for some time and thought.
Then he came back and motioned to Ethel.
THE AMERICAN BARON.
Ill
"You must come," he said, gruffly.
"You shall not," said Minnie.
"No, no, darling," said Ethel; "I had bet
ter go. It will only get you into fresh trouble.
And I'll be back as soon as I can."
"Oh, how I hate you !" said Minnie to Gira-
sole. The latter said nothing. Ethel kissed
Minnie, and descended the stairs after him.
The Irish priest was standing over the grave
bathed in a cold perspiration, his heart throb
bing violently, every new thud of the earth, as
it sounded violently against the coffin, sending
a cold chill of horror through every nerve.
Already enough earth had been thrown to cov
er three-quarters of the lid, and at the foot it
was heaped up some distance. He tried to
frame some excuse to get the men away. His
brain whirled; his mind was confused; his
thoughts refused to be collected.
And now, in the midst of this, the attention
of all was attracted by a loud stern voice, which
sounded from some one near. The priest
looked around. The men stopped shoveling,
and turned to see the cause of the noise.
Girasole was seen approaching, and was al
ready near enough to be distinguished. Be
hind him followed a female form. At this
sight the priest's mind misgave him.
Girasole came up, and now the priest saw
that the female was no other than Ethel.
"Where is this priest?" asked Girasole,
angrily, speaking, of course, in Italian.
The priest advanced.
" I am here," said he, with quiet dignity.
At this change in the state of affairs the
priest regained his presence of mind. The
cessation in the work gave him relief, and ena
bled him to recall his scattered and confused
thoughts. The men stood looking at the speak
ers, and listening, leaning on their shovels.
" You were sent for?"
"Yes."
'And a maid?"
'Yes."
" You brought this lady?"
"Yes."
"You put her in disguise; you passed her
off" as an Italian ?"
"Yes."
The priest made no attempt at denial or
equivocation. He knew that this would be
useless. He waited for an opportunity to ex
cuse himself, and to explain rather than to
deny. But every answer of his only served to
increase the fury of Girasole, who seemed de
termined to visit upon the head of the priest
and Ethel the rage that he felt at his last in
terview with Minnie.
"Then why," cried Girasole, "did you try
to trick us ? Don't you know the punishment
we give to spies and traitors ?"
" I have nothing to do with spies and trai
tors."
"You are one yourself."
" I am not."
"You lie!"
I do not," said the priest, mildly. " Hear
me, and let me tell my story, and you will see
that I am not a traitor ; or, if yon don't wish to
listen, then question me."
"There is but one question. What made
you bring this lady ?"
"That is simply answered," said the priest,
with unfaltering calmness. "This lady and
her friends arrived at my village and claimed
hospitality. They were in distress. Some of
their friends had been taken from them. A
message came from you requesting my pres
ence, and also a lady's-maid. There was no
stipulation about the kind of one. This lady
was the intimate friend of the captive, and en
treated me to take her, so that she should see
her friend, and comfort her, and share her
captivity. I saw no harm in the wish. She
proposed to become a lady's-maid. I saw no
harm in that."
"Why did she disguise herself?"
" So as to pass without trouble. She didn't
want to be delayed. She wanted to see her
friends as soon as possible. If you had ques
tioned her, you would no doubt have let her
pass. "
"I would, no doubt, have done nothing of
the kind."
"I don't see any objection," said the priest.
" Objection ? She is a spy !"
" A spy ? Of what, pray ?"
"She came to help her friend to escape."
"To escape? How could she possibly help
her to escape ? Do you think it so easy to es
cape from this place ?"
Girasole was silent.
" Do you think a young lady, who has never
been out of the care of her friends before, could
do much to assist a friend like herself in an es
cape ?"
"She might."
" But how ? This is not the street of a city.
That house is watched, I think. There seem to
be a few men in these woods, if I am not mis
taken. Could this young lady help her friend
to elude all these guards ? Why, you know very
well that she could not."
"Yes; but then there is — "
" Who ?"
"Yourself."
' Myself?"
'Yes."
'What of me?"
' What do I know about your designs ?"
'What designs could 7 have? Do you
think I could plan an escape ?"
"Why not?"
"Why not? What! living here close be
side you ? / be a traitor ? /, with my life at
your mercy at all times' — with my throat with
in such easy reach of any assassin who might
choose to revenge my treachery ?"
"We are not assassins," said Girasole, an
grily.
" And I am not a traitor," rejoined the priest,
mildly.
112
THE AMERICAN BARON.
UNDEB GUAM).
Girasole was silent, and stood in thonght.
The men at the grave had heard every word of
this conversation. Once they laughed in scorn
when the priest alluded to the absurdity of a
young girl escaping. It was too ridiculous.
Their sympathies were evidently with the priest.
The charge against him could not be main
tained.
"Well," said Girasole at length, "I don't
trust you. You may be traitors, after all. I
will have you guarded, and if I find out any
thing that looks like treason, by Heaven I will
have your life, old man, even if you should be
the Holy Father himself; and as to the lady —
well, I will find plenty of ways," he added,
with a sneer, "of inflicting on her a punish
ment commensurable with her crime. Here,
you men, come along with me," he added, look
ing at the men by the grave.
"But we want to finish poor Antonio's
grave," remonstrated one of the men.
" Bah ! he'll keep," said Girasole, with a sneer.
" Can't one of us stay ?" asked the man.
"No, not one; I want you all. If they are
traitors, they are deep ones. They must be
guarded ; and, mind you, if they escape, you
shall suffer."
With these words he led the way, and the
priest and Ethel followed him. After these
came the men, who had thrown down their
shovels beside the grave. They all walked on
in silence, following Girasole, who led the way
to a place beyond the grave, and within view of
one of the fires formerly alluded to. The place
was about half-way between the grave and the
fire. It was a little knoll bare of trees, and
from it they could be seen by those at the near
est fire. Here Girasole paused, and, with some
final words of warning to the guards, he turned
and took his departure.
The priest sat down upon the grass, and urged
Ethel to do the same. She followed his advice.
and sat down by his side. The guards sat
around them so as to encircle them, and, mind
ful of Girasole's charge, they kept their faces
turned toward them, so as to prevent even the
very thought of flight. The priest addressed a
few" mild parental words to the men, who gave
him very civil responses, but relaxed not a par
ticle of their vigilance.
THE AMERICAN BARON.
113
In the priest's mind there was still some anx
iety, but much greater hope than he had dared
to have for some time. He remembered that
the coffin was not all covered over, and hoped
that the inmate might be able to breathe. The
fact that the work had been so unexpectedly in
terrupted was one which filled him with joy, and
gave rise to the best hopes. The only offset to
all this was his own captivity, but that was a very
serious one. Besides, he knew that his life hung
upon a thread. Before the next day Girasole
would certainly discover all, and in that case he
was a doomed man. But his nature was of a
kind that could not borrow trouble, and so the
fact of the immediate safety of Hawbury was of
far more importance, and attracted far more of
his thoughts, than his own certain but more re
mote danger.
As for Ethel, she was now a prey to the deep
est anxiety. All was discovered except the
mere fact of Hawbury's removal, and how long
that would remain concealed she could not know.
Every moment she expected to hear the cry of
those who might discover the exchange. And
Hawbury, so long lost, so lately found — Haw-
Imry, whom she had suspected of falsity so long
and so long avoided, who now had proved him
self so constant and so true — what was his fate ?
.She had gazed with eyes of horror at that grave
wherein he lay, and had seen the men shoveling
in the earth as she came up. The recollection
of this filled her with anguish. Had they buried
him ? — how deep was the earth that lay over
him? — could there, indeed, be any hope?
All depended on the priest. She hoped that
he had prevented things from going too far.
She had seen him watching the grave, and mo
tionless. What did that inactivity mean? Was
it a sign that Hawbury was safe, or was it mere
ly because he could not do any thing?
She was distracted by such fearful thoughts
as these. Her heart once more throbbed with
those painful pulsations which she had felt when
approaching Hawbury. For some time she sat
supporting her agony as best she could, and not
daring to ask the priest, for fear their guards
might suspect the truth, or perhaps understand
her words.
But at last she could bear it no longer.
She touched the priest's arm as he sat beside
her, without looking at him.
The priest returned the touch.
" Is he safe ?" she asked, in a tremulous
voice, which was scarce audible from grief and
anxiety.
"He is," said the priest.
And then, looking at the man before him, he
added immediately, in an unconcerned tone,
"She wants to know what time it is, and I
told her two o'clock. That's right, isn't it?"
"About right," said the man.
Now that was a lie, but whether it was justi
fiable or not may be left to others to decide.
As for Ethel, an immense load of anxiety was
lifted off her mind, and she began to breathe
more freely.
H
CHAPTER XXXIII.
THE DEMON WIFE.
WHEN Dacres was overpowered by his as
sailants no mercy was shown him. His hands
were bound tight behind him, and kicks and
blows were liberally bestowed during the opera
tion. Finally, he was pushed and dragged into
the house, and up stairs to the room already
mentioned. There he was still further secured
by a tight rope around his ankles, after which
he was left to his own meditations.
Gloomy and bitter and fierce, indeed, were
those meditations. His body was covered with
bruises, and though no bones were broken, yet
his pain was great. In addition to this the
cords around his wrists and ankles were very
tight, and his veins seemed swollen to bursting.
It was difficult to get an easy position, and he
could only lie on his side or on his face. These
bodily pains only intensified the fierceness of
his thoughts and made them turn more vindic
tively than ever upon the subject of his wife.
She was the cause of all this, he thought.
She had sacrificed every thing to her love for
her accursed paramour. For this she had be
trayed him, and her friends, and the innocent
girl who was her companion. All the malig
nant feelings which had filled his soul through
the day now swelled within him, till he was
well-nigh mad. Most intolerable of all was
his position now — the baffled enemy. He
had come as the avenger, he had come as the
destroyer; but he had been entrapped before
he had struck his blow, and here he was now
lying, defeated, degraded, and humiliated ! No
doubt he would be kept to afford sport to his
enemy — perhaps even his wife might come to
gloat over his sufferings, and feast her soul
with the sight of his ruin. Over such thoughts
as these he brooded, until at last he had wrought
himself into something like frenzy ; and with
the pain that he felt, and the weariness that
followed the fatigues of that day, these thoughts
might finally have brought on madness, had they
gone on without any thing to disturb them.
But all these thoughts and ravings were des
tined to come to a full and sudden stop, and to
be changed to others of a far different charac
ter. This change took place when Girasole.
after visiting the ladies, came,, with Mrs. Wil-
loughby, to his room. As Dacres lay on the
floor he heard the voice of the Italian, and the
faint, mournful, pleading tones of a woman's
voice, and, finally, he saw the flash of a light,
and knew that the Italian was coming to his
room', and perhaps this woman also. He held
his breath in suspense. What did it mean?
The tone of Girasole was not the tone of love.
The light drew nearer, and the footsteps too —
one a heavy footfall, the tread of a man ; the
other lighter, the step of a woman. He waited
almost breathless.
At last she appeared. There she was before
him, and with the Italian ; but oh, how changed
from that demon woman of his fancies, who
114
THE AMERICAN BARON.
was to appear before him with his enemy and
gloat over his sufferings ! Was there a trace
of a fiend in that beautiful and gentle face?
Was there thought of joy or exultation over
him in that noble and mournful lady, whose
melancholy grace and tearful eyes now riveted
his gaze ? Where was the foul traitor who had
done to death her husband and her friend?
Where was the miscreant who had sacrificed
all to a guilty passion ? Not there ; not with
that face ; not with those tears : to think that
was impossible — it was unholy. He might
rave when he did not see her, but now that his
eyes beheld her those mad fancies were all dis
sipated.
There was only one thing there — a woman
full of loveliness and grace, in the very bloom
of her life, overwhelmed with suffering which
this Italian was inflicting on her. Why ?
Could he indulge the unholy thought that the
Italian had cast her off, and supplied her place
with the younger beauty ? Away with such a
thought ! It was not jealousy of that younger
lady that Dacres perceived ; it was the cry of
a loving, yearning heart that clung to that other
one, from whom the Italian had violently sev
ered her. There was no mistake as to the
source of this sorrow. Nothing was left to the
imagination. Her own words told all.
Then the light was taken away, and the lady
crouched upon the floor. Dacres could no lon
ger see her amidst that gloom ; but he could
hear her; and every sob, and every sigh, and
every moan went straight to his heart and
thrilled through every fibre of his being. He
lay there listening, and quivering thus as he
listened with a very intensity of sympathy that
shut out from his mind every other thought ex
cept that of the mourning, stricken one before
him.
Thus a long time passed, and the lady wept
still, and other sounds arose, and there were
footsteps in the house, and whisperings, and
people passing to and fro ; but to all these
Dacres was deaf, and they caused no more im
pression on his senses than if they were not.
His ears and his sense of hearing existed only
for these sobs and these sighs.
At last a pistol-shot roused him. The lady
sprang up and called in despair. A cry came
back, and the lady was about to venture to the
other room, when she was driven back by the
stern voice of Girasole. Then she stood for a
moment, after which she knelt, and Dacres
heard her voice in prayer. The prayer was not
audible, but now and then words struck upon
his ears which gave the key to her other words,
and he knew that it was no prayer of remorse
for guilt, but a cry for help in sore affliction.
Had any thing more been needed to destroy
the last vestige of Dacres's former suspicions it
was furnished by the words which he now heard.
"Oh, Heaven! "he thought; " can this woman
be what I have thought her ? But if not, what
a villain am I ! Yet now I must rather believe
myself to be a villain than her ! "
In the midst of this prayer Girasole's voice
sounded, and then Minnie's tones came clearly
audible. The lady rose and listened, and a
great sigh of relief escaped her. Then Gira
sole descended the stairs, and the lady again
sank upon her knees.
Thus far there seemed a spell upon Dacres ;
but this last incident and the clear child-voice
of Minnie seemed to break it. He could no
longer keep silence. His emotion was as in
tense as ever, but the bonds which had bound
his lips seemed now to be loosened.
"Oh, Arethusa !" he moaned.
At the sound of his voice Mrs. Willoughby
started, and rose to her feet. So great had
been her anxiety and agitation that for some
time she had not thought of another being in
the room, and there had been no sound from
him to suggest his existence. But now his
voice startled her. She gave no answer, how
ever.
"Arethusa!" repeated Dacres, gently and
longingly and tenderly.
"Poor fellow!" thought Mrs. Willoughby;
"he's dreaming."
"Arethusa ! oh, Arethusa !" said Dacres once
more. "Do not keep away. Come to me.
I am calm now/'
"Poor fellow!" thought Mrs. Willoughby.
" He doesn't seem to be asleep. He's talking
to me. I really think he is."
"Arethusa," said Dacres again, "will you
answer me one question ?"
Mrs. Willoughby hesitated for a moment, but
now perceived that Dacres was really speaking
to her. "He's in delirium," she thought. "Poor
fellow, I must humor him, I suppose. But what
a funny name to give me !"
So, after a little preparatory cough, Mrs.
Willoughby said, in a low voice,
" What question ?"
Dacres was silent for a few moments. He
was overcome by his emotions. He wished to
ask her one question — the question of all ques
tions in his mind. Already her acts had an
swered it sufficiently; but he longed to have
the answer in her own words. Yet he hesitated
to ask it. It was dishonor to her to ask it.
And thus, between longing and hesitation, he
delayed so long that Mrs. Willoughby imagined
that he had fallen back into his dreams or into
his delirium, and would say no more.
But at last Dacres staked every thing on the
issue, and asked it :
"Arethusa! oh, Arethusa! do you — do you
love — the — the Italian ?"
"The Italian!" said Mrs. Willoughby —
"love the Italian! me!" and then in a mo
ment she thought that this was his delirium,
and she must humor it. "Poor fellow!" she
sighed again ; " how he fought them ! and no
doubt he has had fearful blows on his head."
"Do you? do yon? Oh, answer, I implore
yon!" cried Dacres.
" No !" said Mrs. Willoughby, solemnly. "I
hate him as I never hated man before." She
THE AMERICAN BARON.
115
spoke her mind this time, although she thought
the other was delirious.
A sigh of relief and of happiness came from
Dacres, so deep that it was almost a groan.
"And oh," he continued, "tell me this —
have you ever loved him at all ?"
"I always disliked him excessively," said
Mrs. Willoughby, in the same low and solemn
tone. " I saw something bad — altogether bad
— in his face."
"Oh, may Heaven forever bless you for that
word!" exclaimed Dacres, with such a depth
of fervor that Mrs. Willoughby was surprised.
She now believed that he was intermingling
dreams with realities, and tried to lead him to
sense by reminding him of the truth.
"It was Minnie, you know, that he was
fond of."
"What! Minnie Fay?"
" Yes ; oh yes. / never saw any thing of
him."
" Oh, Heavens !" cried Dacres ; "oh, Heav
ens, what a fool, beast, villain, and scoundrel I
have been ! Oh, how I have misjudged you .'
And can you forgive me ? Oh, can you ? But
no — you can not."
At this appeal Mrs. Willoughby was startled,
and did not know what to say or to do. How
much of this was delirium and how much real
she could not tell. One thing seemed evident
to her, and that was that, whether delirious or
not, he took her for another person. But she
was so full of pity for him, and so very tender
hearted, that her only idea was to "humor"
him.
"Oh," he cried again, " can this all be true,
and have all my suspicions been as mad as these
last ? And you — how you have changed ! How
beautiful you are ! What tenderness there is
in your glance — what a pure and gentle and
touching grace there is in your expression ! I
swear to you, by Heaven ! I have stood gazing
at you in places where you have not seen me,
and thought I saw heaven in your face, and wor
shiped you in my inmost soul. This is the rea
son why I have followed you. From the time
I saw you when you came into the room at Na
ples till this night I could not get rid of your
image. I fought against the feeling, but I can
not overcome it. Never, never were you half
so dear as you are now !"
Now, of course, that was all very well, con
sidered as the language of an estranged hus
band seeking for reconciliation with an es
tranged wife ; but when one regards it simply
as the language of a passionate lover directed
to a young and exceedingly pretty widow, one
will perceive that it was not all very well, and
that under ordinary circumstances it might cre
ate a sensation.
Upon Mrs. Willoughby the sensation was
simply tremendous. She had begun by "hu
moring" the delirious man ; but now she found
his delirium taking a course which was excess
ively embarrassing. The worst of it was, there
was truth enough in his language to increase
the embarrassment. She remembered at once
how the mournful face of this man had appeared
before her in different places. Her thoughts
instantly reverted to that evening on the bal
cony when his pale face appeared behind the
fountain. There was truth in his words ; and
her heart beat with extraordinary agitation at
the thought. Yet at the same time there was
some mistake about it all ; and he was clearly
delirious.
"Oh, Heavens !" he cried. " Can you ever
forgive me ? Is there a possibility of it ? Oh,
can you forgive me ? Can you — can you ?"
He was clearly delirious now. Her heart
was full of pity for him. He was suffering too.
He was bound fast. Could she not release
him ? It was terrible for this man to lie there
bound thus. And perhaps he had fallen into
the hands of these ruffians while trying to save
her and her sister. She must free him.
"Would you like to be loosed?" she asked,
coming nearer. " Shall I cut your bonds ?"
She spoke in a low whisper.
" Oh, tell me first, I implore you ! Can
you forgive me?"
He spoke in such a piteous tone that her
heart was touched.
"Forgive you?" she said, in a voice full of
sympathy and pity. "There is nothing for
me to forgive."
"Now may Heaven forever bless you for
that sweet and gentle word ! " said Dacres, who
altogether misinterpreted her words, and the
emphasis she placed on them ; and in his voice
there was such peace, and such a gentle, exult
ant happiness, that Mrs. Willoughby again felt
touched.
"Poor fellow !" she thought ; " how he must
have suffered!"
" Where are you fastened ?" she whispered,
as she bent over him. Dacres felt her breath
upon his cheek ; the hem of her garment
touched his sleeve, and a thrill passed through
him. He felt as though he would like to be
forever thus, with her bending over him.
" My hands are fastened behind me, " said he.
"I have a knife," said Mrs. Willoughby.
She did not stop to think of danger. It was
chiefly pity that incited her to this. She could
not bear to see him lying thus in pain, which
he had perhaps, as she supposed, encountered
for her. She was impulsive, and though she
thought of his assistance toward the escape of
Minnie and herself, yet pity and compassion
were her chief inspiring motives.
Mrs. Willoughby had told Girasole that she
had no knife ; but this was not quite true, for
she now produced one, and cut the cords that
bound his wrists. Again a thrill flashed through
him at the touch of her little fingers ; she then
cut the cords that bound his ankles.
Dacres sat up. His ankles and wrists were
badly swollen, but he was no longer conscious
of pain. There was rapture in his soul, and
of that alone was he conscious.
"Be careful!" she whispered, warningly ; •
116
THE AMERICAN BARON.
"guards arc all aroun^, and listeners. Be
careful! If you can think of a way of escape,
do so."
Dacres rubbed his hand over his forehead.
"Am I dreaming?" said he; "or is it all
true ? Awhile ago I was suffering from some
hideous vision ; yet now you say you forgive
me!"
Mrs. Willoughby saw in this a sign of re
turning delirium. "But the poor fellow must
be humored, I suppose," she thought.
"Oh, there is nothing for me to forgive,"
said she.
"But if there were any thing, would you?"
"Yes."
"Freely?" he cried, with a strong emphasis.
"Yes, freely."
" Oh, could you answer me one more ques
tion ? Oh, could you ?"
" No, no ; not now — not now, I entreat you,"
said Mrs. Willoughby, in nervous dread. She
was afraid that his delirium would bring him
upon delicate ground, and she tried to hold
him back.
" But I must ask you," said Dacres, trem
bling fearfully — "I must — now or never. Tell
me my doom; I have suffered so much. Oh,
Heavens ! Answer me. Can you ? Can you
feel toward me as you once did ?"
" He's utterly mad," thought Mrs. Willough
by ; " but he'll get worse if I don't soothe him.
Poor fellow ! I ought to answer him."
"Yes," she said, in a low voice.
"Oh, my darling!" murmured Dacres, in
rapture inexpressible; "my darling!" he re
peated ; and grasping Mrs. Willoughby's hand,
he pressed it to his lips. " And you will love
me again — you will love me?"
Mrs. Willoughby paused. The man was
mad, but the ground was so dangerous ! Yes,
she must humor him. She felt his hot kisses
on her hand.
" You will — you will love me, will you not ?"
he repeated. " Oh, answer me ! Answer me,
or I shall die!"
" Yes," whispered Mrs. Willoughby, faintly.
As she said this a cold chill passed through
her. But it was too late. Dacres's arms were
around her. He had drawn her to him, and
pressed her against his breast, and she felt hot
tears upon her head.
"Oh, Arethusa!" cried Dacres.
"Well," said Mrs. Willoughby, as soon as
she could extricate herself, " there's a mistake,
you know."
"A mistake, darling?"
"Oh dear, what shall I do?" thought Mrs.
Willoughby; "he's beginning again. I must
stop this, and bring him to his senses. How
terrible it is to humor a delirious man !"
"Oh, Arethusa !" sighed Dacres once more.
Mrs. Willoughby arose.
"I'm not Arethusa at all," said she ; "that
isn't my name. If you can shake off your de
lirium, I wish you would. I really do."
" What !" cried Dacres, in amazement.
"I'm not Arethusa at all ; that isn't my name.1
" Not your name ?"
" No ; my name's Kitty."
"Kitty!" cried Dacres, starting to his feet.
At that instant the report of a gun burst
upon their ears, followed by another and an
other ; then there were wild calls and loud
shouts. Other guns were heard.
Yet amidst all this wild alarm there was no
thing which had so tremendous an effect upon
Dacres as this last remark of Mrs. Willoughby's.
"TUB I'BiEST FLUNG HIMSELF FOB\VA.UI>.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
THE CRISIS OF LIFE.
WHEN the Irish priest conjectured that it
was about two o'clock in the morning he was
not very far astray in his calculation. The
short remarks that were exchanged between
him and Ethel, and afterward between him
and the men, were followed by a profound si
lence. Ethel sat by the side of the priest,
with her head bent forward and her eyes closed
as though she were asleep ; yet sleep was farther
from her than ever it had been, and the thrill
ing events of the night afforded sufficient ma
terial to keep her awake for many a long hour
yet to come. Her mind was now filled with a
thousand conflicting and most exciting fancies,
in the midst of which she might again have
sunk into despair had she not been sustained by
the assurance of the priest.
Sitting near Ethel, the priest for some time
THE AMERICAN BARON.
117
looked fixedly ahead of him as though he were
contemplating the solemn midnight scene, or
meditating upon the beauties of nature. In
truth, the scene around was one which was de
serving even of the close attention which the
priest appeared to give. Immediately before
him lay the lake, its shore not far beneath, and |
almost at their feet. Around it arose the wood
ed hills, whose dark forms, darker from the
gloom of night, threw profound shadows over
the opposite shores. Near by the shore ex
tended on either side. On the right there
were fires, now burning low, yet occasionally
sending forth flashes ; on the left, an .1 at some
distance, might be seen the dusky outline of
the old stone house. Behind tlum was the
forest, vast, gloomy, clothed in impenetrable
shade, in which lay their only hope of safety,
yet where even now there lurked the watchful
guards of the brigands. It was close behind
them. Once in its shelter,, and they might
gain freedom ; yet between them and it was
an impassable barrier of enemies, and there
also lay a still more impassable barrier in the
grave where Hawbury lay. To fly, even if
they could fly, would be to give him up to
death ; yet to remain, as they must remain,
would be to doom him to death none the less,
and themselves too.
Seated there, with his eyes directed toward
the water, the priest saw nothing of the scene
before him ; his eyes were fixed on vacancy ;
his thoughts were endeavoring to grapple with
the situation and master it. Yet so compli
cated was that situation, and so perplexing the
dilemma in which he found himself — a dilemma
where death perched upon either horn — that
the good priest found his faculties becoming
gradually more and more unable to deal with
the difficulty, and he felt himself once more
sinking down deeper and deeper into that abyss
of despair from which he had but recently ex
tricated himself.
And still the time passed, and the precious
moments, laden with the fate not only of Haw-
bury, but of all the others — the moments of the
night during which alone any escape was to be
thought of — moved all too swiftly away.
Now in this hour of perplexity the good
priest bethought him of a friend whose fidelity
had been proved through the varied events of
a life — a friend which, in his life of celibacy,
had found in his heart something of that place
which a fond and faithful wife may hold in the
heart of a more fortunate man. It was a little
friend, a fragrant friend, a tawny and somewhat
grimy friend ; it was in the pocket of his coat ;
it was of clay ; in fact, it was nothing else than
a dudeen.
Where in the world 1 ad the good priest who
lived in this remote corner of Italy got that
emblem of his green native isle ? Perhaps he
had brought it with him in the band of his hat
when he first turned his back upon his country,
or perhaps he had obtained it from the samo
quarter which had supplied him with that very
black plug of tobacco which he brought forth
shortly afterward. The one was the comple
ment of the other, and each was handled with
equal love and care. Soon the occupation of
cutting up the tobacco and rubbing it gave a
temporary distraction to his thoughts, which
distraction was prolonged by the further opera
tion of pressing the tobacco into the bowl of
the dudeen.
Here the priest paused and cast a longing
look toward the fire, which was not far away.
"Would you have any objection to let me
go and get a coal to light the pipe ?" said he to
one of the men.
The man had an objection, and a very strong
one.
" Would one of you be kind enough to go
and get me a brand or a hot coal ?"
This led to an earnest debate, and finally
one of the men thought that he might venture.
Before doing so, however, a solemn promise
was extorted from the priest that he would not
try to escape during his absence. This the
priest gave.
"Escape!" he said — "it's a smoke I want.
Besides, how can I escape with three of ye
watching me ? And then, what would I want
to escape for? I'm safe enough here."
The man now went off, and returned in a
short time with a brand. The priest gave him
his blessing, and received the brand with a
quiet exultation that was pleasing to behold.
"Matches," said he, "ruin the smoke.
They give it a sulphur taste. There's nothing
like a hot coal."
Saying this, he lighted his pipe. This oper
ation was accomplished with a series of those
short, quick, hard, percussive puffs with which
the Irish race in every clime on this terrestrial
ball perform the solemn rite.
And now the thoughts of the priest became
more calm and regular and manageable. His
confusion departed, and gradually, as the
smoke ascended to the skies, there was diffused
over his soul a certain soothing and all-pervad
ing calm.
He now began to face the full difficulty of
his position. He saw that escape was impos
sible and death inevitable. He made up his
mind to die. The discovery would surely be
made in the morning that Hawbury had been
substituted for the robber ; he would be found
and punished, and the priest would be involved
in his fate. His only care now was for Ethel ;
and he turned his thoughts toward the forma
tion of some plan by which he might obtain
mercy for her.
He was in the midst of these thoughts — for
himself resigned, for Ethel anxious — and turning
over in his mind all the various modes by which
the emotion of pity or mercy might be roused
in a merciless and pitiless nature ; he was think
ing of an appeal to the brigands themselves,
and had already decided that in this there lay
his best hope of success — when all of a sudden
these thoughts were rudely interrupted and
118
THE AMERICAN BARON.
dissipated and scattered to the winds by a
most startling cry.
Ethel started to her. feet.
"Oh Heavens!" she cried, "what was
that?"
"Down ! down !" cried the men, wrathfully ;
but before Ethel could obey the sound was re
peated, and the men themselves were arrested
by it.
The sound that thus interrupted the medita
tions of the priest was the explosion of a rifle.
As Ethel started up another followed. This
excited the men themselves, who now listened
intently to learn the cause.
They did not have to wait long.
Another rifle explosion followed, which was
succeeded by a loud, long shriek.
"An attack!" cried one of the men, with a
deep curse. They listened still, yet did not
move away from the place, for the duty to
which they had been assigned was still prom
inent in their minds. The priest had already
risen to his feet, still smoking his pipe, as
though in this new turn of affairs its assistance
might be more than ever needed to enable him
to preserve his presence of mind, and keep his
soul serene in the midst of confusion.
And now they saw all around them the signs
of agitation. Figures in swift motion flitted to
and fro amidst the shade, and others darted
past the smouldering fires. In the midst of
this another shot sounded, and another, and
still another. At the third there was a wild
yell of rage and pain, followed by the shrill cry
of a woman's voice. The fact was evident that
some one of the brigands had fallen, and the
women were lamenting.
The confusion grew greater. Loud cries
arose ; calls of encouragement, of entreaty, of
command, and of defiance. Over by the old
house there was the uproar of rushing men,
and in the midst of it a loud, stern voice of
command. The voices and the rushing foot
steps moved from the house to the woods.
Then all was still for a time.
It was but for a short time, however. Then
came shot after shot in rapid succession. The
flashes could be seen among the trees. All
around them there seemed to be a struggle
going on. There was some unseen assail
ant striking terrific blows from the impenetra
ble shadow of the woods. The brigands were
firing back, but they fired only into thick dark
ness. Shrieks and yells of pain arose from
time to time, the direction of which showed
that the brigands were suffering. Among the
assailants there was neither voice nor cry.
But, in spite of their losses and the disadvan
tage under which they labored, the brigands
fought well, and resisted stubbornly. From
time to time a loud, stern voice arose, whose
commands resounded far and wide, and sus
tained the courage of the men and directed
their movements.
The men who guarded the priest and Ethel
were growing more and more excited every
moment, and were impatient at their enforced
inaction.
"They must be soldiers," said one.
" Of course," said another.
"They fight well."
"Ay; better than the last time."
"How did they learn to fight so well under
cover ?"
" They've improved. The last time we met
them we shot them like sheep, and drove them
back in five minutes."
"They've got a leader who understands
fighting in the woods. He keeps them under
cover. "
"Who is he?"
"Diavolo.1 who knows? They get new
captains every day."
"Was1 there not a famous American Indi
an — "
"True. I heard of him. An Indian war
rior from the American forests. Guiseppe saw
him when he was at Rome."
" Bah ! — you all saw him. "
"Where?"
"On the road."
"We didn't."
"You did. He was the Zouave who fled to
the woods first."
"He?"
"Yes."
"Diavolo!"
These words were exchanged between them
as they looked at the fighting. But suddenly
there came rapid flashes and rolling volleys be
yond the fires that lay before them, and the
movement of the flashes showed that a rush
had been made toward the lake. Wild yells
arose, then fierce returning fires, and these
showed that the brigands were being driven
back.
The guards could endure this no longer.
" They are beating us," cried one of the men,
with a curse. "We must go and fight."
" What shall we do with these prisoners ?"
"Tie them and leave them."
" Have you a rope ?"
"No. There is one by the grave."
"Let's take the prisoners there and bind
them."
This proposition was accepted ; and, seizing
the priest and Ethel, the four men hurried
them back to the grave. The square hole lay
there just beside them, with the earth by its
side. Ethel tried to see into it, but was not
near enough to do so. One of the men found
the rope, and began in great haste to bind the
arms of the priest behind him. Another be
gan to bind Ethel in the same way.
But now there came loud cries, and the rush
of men near them. A loud, stern voice was
encouraging the men.
"On! on!" he cried. "Follow me! We'll
drive them back!"
Saying this, a man hurried on, followed by
a score of brigands.
It was Girasole.
THE AMERICAN BARON.
119
He had been guarding the woods at this
side when he had seen the rush that had been
made farther up. He had seen his men driven
in, and was now hurrying up to the place to
retrieve the battle. As he was running on he
came up to the party at the grave.
He stopped.
" What's this ?" he cried.
"The prisoners — we were securing them."
It was now lighter than it had been, and
dawn was not far off. The features of Gira-
sole were plainly distinguishable. They were
convulsed with the most furious passion, which
was not caused so much by the rage of conflict
as by the sight of the prisoners. He had sus
pected treachery on their part, and had spared
them for a time only so as to see whether his
suspicions were true or not. But now this
sudden assault by night, conducted so skillfully,
and by such a powerful force, pointed clearly
to treachery, as he saw it, and the ones who to
him seemed most prominent in guilt were the
priest and Ethel.
His suspicions were quite reasonable under
the circumstances. Here was a priest whom
he regarded as his natural enemy. These brig
ands identified themselves with republicans
and Garibaldians whenever it suited their pur
poses to do so, and consequently, as such, they
were under the condemnation of the Pope ; and
any priest might think he was doing the Pope
good service by betraying those who were his
enemies. As to this priest, every thing was
against him. He lived close by; every step
of the country was no doubt familiar to him ;
he had come to the camp under very suspicious
circumstances, bringing with him a stranger in
disguise. He had given plausible answers to
the cross-questioning of Girasole ; but those
were empty words, which went for nothing in
the presence of the living facts that now stood
before him in the presence of the enemy.
These thoughts had all occurred to Girasole,
and the sight of the two prisoners kindled his
rage to madness. It was the deadliest pur
pose of vengeance that gleamed in his eyes
as he looked upon them, and they knew it.
He gave one glance, and then turned to his
men.
" On ! on !" he cried ; " I will join you in an
instant ; and you," he said to the guards,
"wait a moment."
The brigands rushed on with shouts to as
sist their comrades in the fight, while the other
four waited.
All this time the fight had not ceased. The
air was filled with the reports of rifle-shots, the
shouts of men, the yells of the wounded. The
flashes seemed to be gradually drawing nearer,
as though the assailants were still driving the
brigands. But their progress was slow, for the
fighting was earned on among the trees, and
the brigands resisted stubbornly, retreating
from cover to cover, and stopping every mo
ment to make a fresh stand. But the assail
ants had gained much ground, and were al
ready close by the borders of the lake, and ad
vancing along toward the old stone house.
The robbers had not succeeded in binding
their prisoners. The priest and Ethel both
stood where they had encountered Girasole.
and the ropes fell from the robbers' hands at
the new interruption. The grave with its
mound was only a few feet away.
Girasole had a pistol in his left hand and a
sword in his right. He sheathed his sword and
drew another pistol, keeping his eyes fixed
steadily all the while upon his victims.
"You needn't bind these prisoners," said
Girasole, grimly ; "I know a better way to se
cure them."
"In the name of God," cried the priest, "1
implore you not to shed innocent blood!"
" Pooh !" said Girasole.
"This lady is innocent; you wrll at least
spare her!"
"She shall die first!" said Girasole, in a
fury, and reached out his hand to grasp Ethel.
The priest flung himself forward between the
two. Girasole dashed him aside.
"Give us time to pray, for God's sake —
one moment to pray!"
"Not a moment!" cried Girasole, grasping
at Ethel.
Ethel gave a loud shriek and started away in
horror. Girasole sprang after her. The four
men turned to seize her. With a wild and
frantic energy, inspired by the deadly terror
that was in her heart, she bounded away to
ward the grave.
CHAPTER XXXV.
BURIED ALIVE.
HAWBUKY last vanished from the scene to a
place which is but seldom resorted to by a liv
ing man. Once inside of his terrible retreat he
became a prey to feelings of the most varied
and harrowing character, in the midst of which
there was a suspense, twofold, agonizing, and
intolerable. First of all, his suspense was for
Ethel, and then for himself. In that narrow
and restricted retreat his senses soon became
sharpened to an unusual degree of acuteness.
Every touch against it communicated itself to
his frame, as though the wood of his inclosure
had become part of himself; and every sound
intensified itself to an extraordinary degree of
distinctness, as though the temporary loss of
vision had been compensated for by an exag
geration of the sense of hearing. This was
particularly the case as the priest drove in the
screws. He heard the shuffle on the stairs, the
whisper to Ethel, her retreat, and the ascending
footsteps ; while at the same time he was aware
of the unalterable coolness of the priest, who
kept calmly at his work until the very last mo
ment. The screws seemed to enter his owu
frame, and the slight noise which was made,
inaudible as it was to others, to him seemed
loud enough to rouse all in the house.
120
THE AMERICAN BARON.
Then he felt himself raised and carried down
stairs. Fortunately he had got in with his
feet toward the door, and as that end was car
ried out first, his descent of the stairs was not
attended with the inconvenience which he
might have felt had it been taken down in an
opposite direction.
One fact gave him very great relief, for he
had feared that his breathing would be diffi
cult. Thanks, however, to the precautions of
the priest, he felt no difficulty at all in that re
spect. The little bits of wood which prevented
the lid from resting close to the coffin formed
apertures which freely admitted all the air that
was necessary.
He was borne on thus from the house toward
the grave, and heard the voice of the priest
from time to time, and rightly supposed that
the remarks of the priest were addressed not
so much to the brigands as to himself, so as to
let him know that he was not deserted. The
journey to the grave was accomplished without
any inconvenience, and the coffin was at length
put upon the ground.
Then it was lowered into the grave.
There was something in this which was so
horrible to Hawbury that an involuntary shud
der passed through every nerve, and all the
terror of the grave and the bitterness of death
in that one moment seemed to descend upon
him. He had not thought of this, and conse
quently was not prepared for it. He had ex
pected that he would be put down somewhere
on the ground, and that the priest would be
able to get rid of the men, and effect his liber
ation before it had gone so far.
It required an effort to prevent himself from
crying out ; and longer efforts were needed and
more time before he could regain any portion
of his self-control. He now heard the priest
performing the burial rites ; these seemed to
him to be protracted to an amazing length ;
and so, indeed, they were ; but to the inmate
of that grave the time seemed longer far than
it did to those who were outside. A thousand
thoughts swept through his mind, and a thou
sand fears swelled within his heart. At last
the suspicion came to him that the priest him
self was unable to do any better, and this sus
picion was confirmed as he detected the efforts
which he made to get the men to. leave the
grave. This was particularly evident when he
pretended to hear an alarm, by which he hoped
to get rid of the brigands. It failed, however,
and with this failure the hopes of Hawbury
sank lower than ever.
But the climax of his horror was attained
as the first clod fell upon his narrow abode.
It seemed like a death-blow. He felt it as if
it had struck himself, and for a moment it was
as though he had been stunned. The dull,
heavy sound which those heard who stood
above, to his ears became transformed and en
larged, and extended to something like a thun
der-peal, with long reverberations through his
now fevered and distempered bruin. Other
clods fell, and still others, and the work went
on till his brain reeled, and under the mighty
emotions of the hour his reason began to give
way. Then all his fortitude and courage sank.
All thought left him save the consciousness of
the one horror that had now fixed itself upon
his soul. It was intolerable. In another mo
ment his despair would have overmastered him,
and under its impulse he would have burst
through all restraint, and turned all his ener
gies toward forcing himself from his awful pris
on house.
He turned himself over. He gathered him
self up as well as he could. Already he was
bracing himself for a mighty effort to burst up
the lid, when suddenly the voice of Girasole
struck upon his ear, and a wild fear for Ethel
came to his heart, and the anguish of that fear
checked at once all further thought of himself.
He lay still and listened. He did this the
more patiently as the men also stopped from
their work, and as the hideous earth-clods no
longer fell down. He listened. From the
conversation he gathered pretty accurately the
state of affairs. He knew that Ethel was
there ; that she had been discovered and
dragged forth ; that she was in danger. He
listened in the anguish of a new suspense.
He heard the words of the priest, his calm de
nial of treachery, his quiet appeal to Girasole's
good sense. Then he heard the decision of
Girasole, and the party walked away with their
prisoners, and he was left alone.
Alone !
At any other time it would have been a ter
rible thing thus to be left alone in such a place,
but now to him who was thus imprisoned it af
forded a great relief. The work of burial,
with all its hideous accompaniments, was stayed.
He could collect his senses and make up his
mind as to what he should do.
Now, first of all, he determined to gain more air
if possible. The earth that had fallen had cov
ered up many of the chinks, so that his breath
ing had become sensibly more difficult. His
confinement, with this oppression of his breath
ing, was intolerable. He therefore braced
himself once more to make an effort. The
coffin was large and rudely constructed, being
merely an oblong box. He had more play to
his limbs than he could have had in one of a
more regular construction, and thus he was
able to bring a great effort to bear upon the
lid. He pressed. The screws gave way. He-
lifted it up to some distance. He drew in a
long draught of fresh air, and felt in that one
draught that he received new life and strength
and hope.
He now lay still and thought about what lie
should do next. If it had only been himself,
he would, of course, have escaped in that first
instant, and fled to the woods. But the
thought of Ethel detained him.
What was her position ; and what could he
do to save her? This was his thought.
He knew that she, together with the priest,
THE AMERICAN BARON.
121
• IN AM INSTANT THE OCCUPANT OF TUB GRAVE SPRANG FOBTII.
was in the hands of four of the brigands, who
were commanded to keep their prisoners safe
at the peril of their lives. Where they were
he did not know, nor could he tell whether she
was near or at a distance. Girasole had led
them away.
He determined to look out and watch,
perceived that this grave, in the heart of the
brigands' camp, afforded the very safest place
in which he could be for the purpose of watch
ing. Girasole's words had indicated that
the work of burial would not be resumed that
night, and if any passers-by should come they
would avoid such a place as this. Here, then,
he could stay until dawn at least, and watch
unobserved. Perhaps he could find where
Ethel was guarded; perhaps he could do some
thing to distract the attention of the brigands,
and afford her an opportunity for flight.
He now arose, and, kneeling in the coffin,
he raised the lid. The earth that was upon it
fell down inside. He tilted the lid up, and
holding it up thus with one hand, he put his
head carefully out of the grave, and looked out
n the direction where Girasole had gone with
lis prisoners. The knoll to which he had led
them was a very conspicuous place, and had
probably been se'lected for that reason, since it
iiould be under his own observation, from time
to time, even at a distance. It was about half
way between the grave and the nearest fire,
which fire, though low, still gave forth some
light, and the light was in a line with the knoll
to Hawbury's eyes. The party on the knoll,
therefore, appeared thrown out into relief by
the faint fire-light behind them, especially the
priest and Ethel.
And now Hawbury kept his watch, and
looked and listened and waited, ever mindful
of his own immediate neighborhood, and guard
ing carefully against any approach. But his
own place was in gloom, and no one would
have thought of looking there, so that he was
unobserved.
But all his watching gave him no assistance
toward finding out any way of rescuing Ethel.
He saw the vigilant guard around the prison
ers. Once or twice he saw a movement among
122
THE AMERICAN BARON.
them, but it was soon over, and resulted in
nothing. Now he began to despond, and to
speculate in his mind as to whether Ethel was
in any danger or not. He began to calculate
the time that might be required to go for help
with which to attack the brigands. He won
dered what reason Girasole might have to in
jure Ethel. But whatever hope he had that
mercy might be shown her was counterbal
anced by his own experience of Girasole's
cruelty, and his knowledge of his merciless
character.
Suddenly he was roused by the rifle-shot and
the confusion that followed. He saw the party
on the mound start to their feet. He heard
the shots that succeeded the first one. He
saw shadows darting to and fro. Then the
confusion grew worse, and all the sounds of
battle arose — the cries, the shrieks, and the
stern words of command.
All this filled him with hope. An attack
was being made. They might all be saved.
He could see that the brigands were being
driven back, and that the assailants were press
ing on.
Then he saw the party moving from the
knoll. It was already much lighter. They
advanced toward him. He sank down and
waited. He had no fear now that this party
would complete his burial. He thought they
were flying with the prisoners. If so, the as
sailants would soon be here; he could join
them, and lead them on to the rescue of
Ethel.
He lay low with the lid over him. He heard
them close beside him. Then there was the
noise of rushing men, and Girasole's voice
arose.
He heard all that followed.
Then Ethel's shriek sounded out, as she
sprang toward the grave.
In an instant the occupant of the grave,
seizing the lid, raised it up, and with a wild
yell sprang forth.
The effect was tremendous.
The brigands thought the dead Antonio had
come to life. They did not stop to look, but
with a howl of awful terror, and in an anguish
of fright, they turned and ran for their lives !
Girasole saw him too, with equal horror, if
not greater. He saw Hawbury. It was the
man whom he had killed stone-dead with his
own hand. He was there before him — or was
it his ghost ? For an instant horror paralyzed
him ; and then, with a yell like a madman's, he
leaped back and fled after the others.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
FLY ! FLY !
IN the midst of that wild uproar which had
roused Dacres and Mrs. Willoughby there was
nothing that startled him so much as her decla
ration that she was not Arethusa. He stood be- i
wildered. While she was listening to the
sounds, he was listening to the echo of her
words ; while she was wondering at the cause
of such a tumult, he was wondering at this dis
closure. In a moment a thousand little things
suggested themselves as he stood there in his
confusion, which little things all went to throw
a flood of light upon her statement, and prove
that she was another person than that " demon
wife" who had been the cause of all his woes.
Her soft glance, her gentle manner, her sweet
and tender expression — above all, the tone of
her voice ; all these at once opened his eyes.
In the course of their conversation she had
spoken in a low tone, often in a whisper, so
that this fact with regard to the difference of
voice had not been perceptible ; but her last
words were spoken louder, and he observed the
difference.
Now the tumult grew greater, and the re
ports of the rifles more frequent. The noise
was communicated to the house, and in the
rooms and the hall below there were tramplings
of feet, and hurryings to and fro, and the rat
tle of arms, and the voices of men, in the midst
of which rose the stern command of Girasole.
" Forward ! Follow me !"
Then the distant reports grew nearer and
yet nearer, and all the men rushed from the
house, and their tramp was heard outside as
they hurried away to the scene of conflict.
"It's an attack! The brigands are at
tacked !" cried Mrs. Willoughby.
Dacres said nothing. He was collecting his
scattered thoughts.
"Oh, may Heaven grant that we may be
saved ! Oh, it is the troops — it must be ! Oh,
Sir, come, come ; help us to escape ! My dar
ling sister is here. Save her!"
" Your sister ?" cried Dacres.
" Oh yes ; come, save her! My sister — my
darling Minnie!"
With these words Mrs. Willoughby rushed
from the room.
" Her sister ! her sister !" repeated Dacres —
"Minnie Fay! Her sister! Good Lord!
What a most infernal ass I've been making of
myself this last month !"
He stood still for a few moments, overwhelmed
by this thought, and apparently endeavoring to
realize the full extent and enormous size and
immense proportions, together with the infinite
extent of ear, appertaining to the ass to which
he had transformed himself; but finally he
shook his head despondingly, as though he
gave it up altogether. Then he hurried after
Mrs. Willoughby.
Mrs. Willoughby rushed into Minnie's room,
and clasped her sister in her arms with frantic
tears and kisses.
" Oh, my precious darling !" she exclaimed.
"Oh dear!" said Minnie, "isn't this reallv
too bad ? I was so tired, you know, and I was
just beginning to go to sleep, when those horrid
men began firing their guns. I really do think
that every body is banded together to tease me.
THE AMERICAN BARON.
123
I do wish they'd all go away and let me have a
little peace. I am so tired and sleepy !"
While Minnie was saying this her sister was
embracing her and kissing her and crying over
her.
"Oh, come, Minnie, come!" she cried;
" make haste. We must fly !"
"Where to?" said Minnie, wonderingly.
"Any where — any where out of this awful
place : into the woods."
"Why, I don't see the use of going into the
woods. It's all wet, you know. Can't we get
a carriage ?"
" Oh no, no ; we must not wait. They'll all
be back soon and kill us. "
"Kill us! What for?" cried Minnie.
"What do you mean? How silly you are,
Kitty darling!"
At this moment Dacres entered. The im
age of the immeasurable ass was still very
prominent in his mind, and he had lost all his
fever and delirium. One thought only re
mained (besides that of the ass, of course), and
that was — escape.
" Are you ready ?" he asked, hurriedly.
" Oh yes, yes ; let us make haste," said Mrs.
Willoughby.
"I think no one is below," said he ; "but I
will go first. There is a good place close by.
We will run there. If I fall, you must run on
and try to get there. It is the bank just oppo
site. Once there, you are in the woods. Do
you understand?"
"Oh yes, yes!" cried Mrs. Willoughby.
"Haste! Oh, haste!"
Dacres turned, and Mrs. Willoughby had
just grasped Minnie's hand to follow, when
suddenly they heard footsteps below.
They stopped, appalled.
The robbers had not all gone, then. Some
of them must have remained on guard. But
how many ?
Dacres listened and the ladies listened, and
in their suspense the beating of each heart was
audible. The footsteps below could be heard
going from room to room, and pausing in
each.
"There seems to be only one man," said
Dacres, in a whisper. " If there is only one,
I'll engage to manage him. While I grapple,
you run for your lives. Remember the bank."
"Oh yes; but oh, Sir, there may be more,"
said Mrs. Willoughby.
"I'll see," said Dacres, softly.
He went cautiously to the front window and
looked out. By the increased light he could
see quite plainly. No men were visible. From
afar the noise of the strife came to his ears
louder than ever, and he could see the flashes
of the rifles.
Dacres stole back again from the window
and went to the door. He stood and listened.
And now the footsteps came across the hall
to the foot of the stairs. Dacres could see the
figure of a solitary man, but it was dark in the
hallj and he could not make him out.
He began to think that there was only one
enemy to encounter.
The man below put his foot on the lowest
stair.
Then he hesitated.
Dacres stood in the shadow of the other door
way, which was nearer to the head of the
stairs, and prepared to spring as soon as the
stranger should come within reach. But the
stranger delayed still.
At length he spoke :
" Hallo, up there!"
The sound of those simple words produced
an amazing effect upon the hearers. Dacres
sprang down with a cry of joy. "Come,
come !" he shouted to the ladies ; "friends are
here ! " And running down the stairs, he
reached the bottom and grasped the stranger
by both arms.
In the dim light he could detect a tall, slim,
sinewy form, with long, black, ragged hair and
white neck-tie.
"You'd best get out of this, and quick,
too," said the Rev. Saul Tozer. "They're all
off now, but they'll be back here in less than no
time. I jest thought I'd look in to see if any
of you folks was around."
By this time the ladies were both at the bot
tom of the stairs.
"Come!" said Tozer; "hurry up, folks.
I'll take one lady and you take t'other."
" Do you know the woods ?"
"Like a book."
"So do I," said Dacres.
He grasped Mrs. Willoughby's hand and
started.
"But Minnie!" said Mrs. Willoughby.
" You had better let him take her ; it's safer
for all of us," said Dacres.
Mrs. Willoughby looked back as she was
dragged on after Dacres, and saw Tozer fol
lowing them, holding Minnie's hand. This
reassured her.
Dacres dragged her on to the foot of the
bank. Here she tried to keep up with him,
but it was steep, and she could not.
Whereupon Dacres stopped, and, without a
word, raised her in his arms as though she were
a little child, and ran up the bank. He
plunged into the woods. Then he ran on far
ther. Then he turned and doubled.
Mrs. Willoughby begged him to put her
down.
"No," said he ; "they are behind us. You
can not go fast enough. I should have to wait
and defend you, and then we would both be
lost."
"But, oh ! we are losing Minnie."
" No, we are not," cried Dacres ; " that man
is ten times stronger than I am. He is a per
fect elephant in strength. He dashed past me
up the hill."
"I didn't see him."
"Your face was turned the other way. Ho
is ahead of us now somewhere."
"Oh, I wish we could catch up to him."
124
THE AMERICAN BAROX.
"AT THIS DAOEE8 BC9HEI) ON FA8TEB."
At this Dacres rushed on faster. The effort
was tremendous. He leaped over fallen tim
bers, he burst through the underbrush.
"Oh, I'm sure you'll kill yourself if you go
so fast," said Mrs. Willoughby. "We can't
catch up to them."
At this Dacres slackened his pace, and went
on more carefully. She again begged him to
put her down. He again refused. Upon this
she felt perfectly helpless, and recalled, in a
vague way, Minnie's ridiculous question of
" How would you like to be run away with by
a great, big, horrid man, Kitty darling?"
Then she began to think he was insane, and
felt very anxious.
At last Dacres stopped. He was utterly ex
hausted. He was panting terribly. It had
been a fearful journey. He had run along the
bank up to that narrow valley which he had
traversed the day before, and when he stopped
it was on the top of that precipice where he had
formerly rested, and where he had nurtured
such dark purposes against Mrs. Willoughby.
Mrs. Willoughby looked at him, full of pity,
lie was utterly broken down by this last effort.
"Oh dear!" she thought. "Is he sane or
insane? What am I to do? It is dreadful to
have to go 011 and humor his queer fancies."
CHAPTER XXXVII.
MIXXIE'S LAST LIFE-PRESEKVER.
WHEN Tozer started after Dacres he led
Minnie by the hand for only a little distance.
On reaching the acclivity he seized her in his
arms, thus imitating Dacres's example, and
rushed up, reaching the top before the other.
Then he plunged into the woods, and soon be
came separated from his companion.
Once in the woods, he went along quite leis
urely, carrying Minnie without any difficulty,
and occasionally addressing to her a soothing
remark, assuring her that she was safe. Min
nie, however, made no remark of any kind, good
or bad, but remained quite silent, occupied with
her own thoughts. At length Tozer stopped
and put her down. It was a place upon the
edge of a cliff on the shore of the lake, and as
THE AMERICAN BARON.
" ' WORSE AND WOBSB,' SAID TOZER."
much as a mile from the house. The cliff was
almost fifty feet high, and was perpendicular.
All around was the thick forest, and it was un
likely that such a place could be discovered.
"Here," said he; "we've got to stop here,
and it's about the right place. We couldn't
get any where nigh to the soldiers without the
brigands seeing us ; so we'll wait here till the
fight's over, and the brigands all chased off."
"The soldiers! what soldiers?" asked Min-
• nie.
"Why, they're having a fight over there —
the soldiers are attacking the brigands."
"Well, I didn't know. Nobody told me.
And did you come with the soldiers?"
" Well, not exactly. I came with the priest
and the young lady."
"But you were not at the house?"
" No. They wouldn't take me all the way.
The priest said I couldn't be disguised — but I
don't see why not — so he left me in the woods
till he came back. And then the soldiers came,
and we crept on till we came nigh the lake.
Well, then I stole away ; and when they made
an attack the brigands all ran there to fight, and
I watched till I saw the coast clear ; and so I
came, and here we are."
Minnie now was quite silent and preoccu
pied, and occasionally she glanced sadly at
Tozer with her large, pathetic, child-like eyes.
It was a very piteous look, full of the most ten
der entreaty. Tozer occasionally glanced at
her, and then, like her, he sat silent, involved
in his own thoughts.
"And so," said Minnie at last, "you're not
the priest himself?"
"The priest ?"
"Yes."
" Well, no ; I don't call myself a priest. I'm
a minister of the Gospel."
"Well, you're not a real priest, then."
" All men of my calling are real priests — yes,
priests and kings. I yield to no man in the
estimate which I set upon my high and holy
calling."
" Oh, but I mean a Roman Catholic priest,"
said Minnie.
" A Roman Catholic priest ! Me! Why,
what a question! Me! a Roman Catholic!
Why, in our parts folks call me the Protestant
Champion."
" Oh, and so you're only a Protestant, after
all," said Minnie, in a disappointed tone.
"Only a Protestant!" repeated Tozer, se
verely— "only a Protestant. Why, ain't you
one yourself?"
"Oh yes; but I hoped you were the other
priest, you know. I did so want to have a
Roman Catholic priest this time."
Tozer was silent. It struck him that this
young lady was in danger. Her wish for a Ro
man Catholic priest boded no good. She had
just come from Rome. No doubt she had
been tampered with. Some Jesuits had caught
her, and had tried to proselytize her. His soul
swelled with indignatiom at the thought.
"Oh dear!" said Minnie again.
"What's the matter?" asked Tozer, in a sym
pathizing voice.
"I'm so sorry."
"What for?"
"Why, that you saved my life, you know."
" Sorry ? sorry ? that I saved your life ?" re
peated Tozer, in amazement.
"Oh, well, you know, I did so want to be
saved by a Roman Catholic priest, you know."
"To be saved by a Roman Catholic priest !"
repeated Tozer, pondering these words in his
mind as he slowly pronounced them. He could
make nothing of them at first, but finally con
cluded that they concealed some half-suggested
tendency to Rome.
"I don't like this — I don't like this," he said,
solemnly.
"What don't you like?"
"It's dangerous. It looks bad," said Tozer,
with increased solemnity.
"What's dangerous? You look so solemn
that you really make me feel quite nervous.
What's dangerous ?"
" WThy, your words. I see in you, I think,
a kind of leaning toward Home."
' ' It isn't Rome, " said Minnie. ' ' I don't lean
to Rome. I only lean a little toward a Roman
Catholic priest."
'•Worse and worse," said Tozer. "Dear!
dear ! dear ! worse and worse. This beats all.
Young woman, beware ! But perhaps I don't
understand you. You surely don't mean that
your affections are engaged to any Roman
Catholic priest. You can't mean that. Why,
they can't marry."
"But that's just what I like them so for,"
said Minnie. "I like people that don't marry ;
I hate people that want to marry."
Tozer turned this over in his mind, but could
126
THE AMERICAN BARON.
make nothing of it. At length he thought he
saw in this an additional proof that she had
been tampered with by Jesuits at Rome. He
thought he saw in this a statement of her
belief in the Roman Catholic doctrine of ce
libacy.
He shook his head more solemnly than ever.
" It's not Gospel," said he. " It's mere hu
man tradition. Why, for centuries there was
a married priesthood even in the Latin Church.
Dunstan's chief measures consisted in a fierce
war on the married clergy. So did Hilde-
brand's — Gregory the Seventh, you know. The
Church at Milan, sustained by the doctrines of
the great Ambrose, always preferred a married
clergy. The worst measures of Hildebrand
were against these good pastors and their wives.
And in the Eastern Church they have always
had it."
Of course all this was quite beyond Minnie ;
so she gave a little sigh, and said nothing.
" Now as to Rome," resumed Tozer. " Have
you ever given a careful study to the Apoca
lypse — not a hasty reading, as people generally
do, but a serious, earnest, and careful examina
tion ?"
" I'm sure I haven't any idea what in the
world you're talking about," said Minnie. " I
wish you wouldn't talk so. I don't understand
one single word of what you say."
Tozer started and stared at this. It was a
depth of ignorance that transcended that of the
other young lady with whom he had conversed.
But he attributed it all to " Roman" influences.
They dreaded the Apocalypse, and had not al
lowed either of these young ladies to become
acquainted with its tremendous pages. More
over, there was . something else. There was a
certain light and trifling tone which she used in
referring to these things, and it pained him. He
sat involved in a long and very serious consid
eration of her case, and once or twice looked
at her with so very peculiar an expression that
Minnie began to feel very uneasy indeed.
Tozer at length cleared his throat, and fixed
upon Minnie a very affectionate and tender
look.
" My dear young friend," said he, " have you
ever reflected upon the way you are living ?"
At this Minnie gave him a frightened little
look, and her head fell.
" You are young now, but you can't be young
always ; youth and beauty and loveliness all are
yours, but they can't last ; and now is the time
for you to make your choice — now in life's gay
morn. It ain't easy when you get old. Re
member that, my dear. Make your choice now
— now."
"Oh dear !" said Minnie; "Iknewit. But
I can't — and I don't want to — and I think it's
very unkind in you. I don't want to make any
choice. I don't want anv of you. It's so hor
rid."
This was a dreadful shock to Tozer ; but he
could not turn aside from this beautiful yet
erring creature.
" Oh, I entreat you — I implore you, my dear,
dear — "
" I do wish you wouldn't talk to me that way.
and call me your dear. I don't like it ; no, not
even if you did save my life, though really I
didn't know there was any danger. But I'm
not your dear. "
And Minnie tossed her head with a little air
of determination, as though she had quite made
up her mind on that point.
" Oh, well now, really now," said Tozer, " it
was only a natural expression. I do take a
deep interest in you, my — that is — miss ; I feel
a sincere regard and affection and — "
" But it's no use," said Minnie. " You really
can't, you know ; and so, why, you mustn't, you
know."
Tozer did not clearly understand this, so aft
er a brief pause he resumed :
"But what I was saying is of far more im
portance. I referred to your life. Now you're
not happy as you are."
" Oh yes, but I am," said Minnie, briskly.
Tozer sighed.
" I'm very happy," continued Minnie, " very,
very happy — that is, when I'm with dear, dar
ling Kitty, and dear, dear Ethel, and my dar
ling old Dowdy, and dear, kind papa."
Tozer sighed again.
"You can't be truly happy thus," he said,
mournfully. "You may think you are, but
you ain't. My heart fairly yearns over you
when I see you, so young, so lovely, and so in
nocent ; and I know you can't be happy as you
are. You must live otherwise. And oh, I
pray you — I entreat you to set your affections
elsewhere!"
" Well, then, I think it's very, very horrid in
you to press me so," said, Minnie, with some
thing actually like asperity in her tone ; " but
it's quite impossible."
"But oh, why?"
" Why, because I don't want to have things
any different. But if I have to be worried and
teased so, and if people insist on it so, why,
there's only one that I'll ever consent to."
"And what is that?" asked Tozer, looking
at her with the most affectionate solicitude.
" Why, it's — it's — " Minnie paused, and
looked a little confused.
" It's what ?" asked Tozer, with still deeper
and more anxious interest.
"Why, it's— it's— Rufus K. Gunn."
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
THE IMPATIENT BARON.
THE brigands had resisted stubbornly, but
finally found themselves without a leader. Gi-
rasole had disappeared ; and as his voice no
longer directed their movements, they began to
fall into confusion. The attacking party, on the
other hand, was well led, and made a steady
advance, driving the enemy before them. At
THE AMERICAN BARON.
127
"THE msoovEBY OK A BODY ON THE SHOEE OF
THE LAKE."
length the brigands lost heart, and took to
flight. With a wild cheer the assailants fol
lowed in pursuit. But the fugitives took to
the forest, and were soon beyond the reach of
their pursuers in its familiar intricacies, and the
victors were summoned back by the sound of the
trumpet.
It was now daylight, and as the conquering
party emerged from the forest they showed the
uniform of the Papal Zouaves ; while their lead
er, who had shown himself so skillful in forest
warfare, proved to be no less a personage than
our friend the Baron. Led by him, the party ad
vanced to the old stone house, and here, draw
ing up his men in front, their leader rushed in,
and searched every room. To his amazement,
he found the house deserted, its only inmate
being that dead brigand whom Girasole had
mistaken for Hawbury. This discovery filled
the Baron with consternation. He had ex
pected to find the prisoners here, and his dis
may and grief were excessive. At first he could
not believe in his ill luck ; but another search
convinced him of it, and reduced him to a state
of perfect bewilderment.
But he was not one who could long remain
inactive. Feeling confident that the brigands
were scattered every where in headlong flight,
he sent his men out in different directions, into
the woods and along the shore, to see if they
could find any traces of the lost ones. He him
self remained near the house, so as to direct
the search most efficiently. After about an
hour they came back, one by one, without being
able to find many traces. One had found an
empty coffin in a grave, another a woman's
hood, a third had found a scarf. All of these
had endeavored to follow up these traces, but
without result. Finally a man approached who
announced the discovery of a body on the shore
of the lake. After him came a party who was
carrying the corpse for the inspection of their
captain.
The Baron went to look at it. The body
showed a great gap in the skull. On ques
tioning the men, he learned that they had found
it on the shore, at the bottom of a steep rock,
about half-way between the house and the place
where they had first emerged from the woods.
His head was lying pressed against a sharp
rock in such a way that it was evident that he
had fallen over the cliff, and had been instantly
killed. The Baron looked at the face, and rec
ognized the features of Girasole. He ordered
it to be taken away and laid in the empty grave
for future burial.
The Baron now became impatient. This
was not what he had bargained for at all. At
length he thought that they might have fled,
and might now be concealed in the woods
around ; and together with this thought there
came to his mind an idea of an effective way to
reach them. The trumpeter could send forth
a blast which could be heard far and wide.
But what might, could, would, or should the
trumpeter sound forth which should give the
concealed listeners a certainty that the sum
mons came from friends and not from foes?
This the Baron puzzled over for some time.
At length he solved this problem also, and tri
umphantly.
There was one strain which the trumpeter
might sound that could not be mistaken. It
would at once convey to the concealed hearers
all the truth, and gently woo them home. It
would be at once a note of victory, a song of
joy, a call of love, a sound of peace, and an in
vitation — "Wanderer, come home!"
Of course there was only one tune that, to
the mind of the Baron, was capable of doing
this.
And of course that tune was " Yankee Doo
dle."
Did the trumpeter know it ?
Of course he did.
Who does not know it ?
All men know that tune. Man is born with
an innate knowledge of the strain of " Yankee
Doodle." No one can remember when he first
learned it. The reason is because he never
learned it at all. It was born in him.
So the trumpeter sounded it forth, and wild
and high and clear and far the sounds arose ;
and it was "Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild
echoes flying; and answer, echoes, answer,
Yankee Doodle dying."
And while the trumpet sounded the Baron
listened and listened, and walked up and down,
and fretted and fumed and chafed, and I'm
afraid he swore a little too ; and at last he was
going to tell the trumpeter to stop his infernal
noise, when, just at that moment, what should
he see all of a sudden emerging from the woods
but three figures !
128
THE AMERICAN BARON.
And I'll leave yon to imagine, if you can, the
joy and delight which agitated the bosom of our
good Baron as he recognized among these three
figures the well-known face and form of his
friend Hawbury. With Hawbury was a lady
whom the Baron remembered having seen once
in the upper hall of a certain house in Rome,
on a memorable occasion, when he stood on the
stairs calling Min. The lady was very austere
then, but she was very gracious now, and very
wonderfully sweet in the expression of her face.
And with them was a stranger in the garb of a
priest.
Now as soon as the party met the Baron, who
rushed to meet them, Hawbury wrung his hand,
and stared at him in unbounded astonishment.
" You !" he cried ; " yourself, old boy ! By
Jove!"
" Yes," said the Baron. " You see, the mo
ment we got into that ambush I kept my eye
open, and got a chance to spring into the woods.
There I was all right, and ran for it. I got
into the road again a couple of miles back, got
a horse, rode to Civita Castellana, and there I
was lucky enough to find a company of Zouaves.
Well, Sir, we came here flying, mind, I tell you,
and got hold of a chap that we made guide us
to the lake. Then we opened on them ; and
here we are, by thunder ! But where's Min ?"
''Who?" asked Hawbury.
" Min," said the Baron, in the most natural
tone in the world.
" Oh ! Why, isn't she here ?"
"No. We've hunted every where. No one's
here at all." And the Baron went on to tell
about their search and its results. Hawbury
was chiefly struck by the news of Girasole.
" He must have gone mad with terror," said
Hawbury, as he told the Baron about his adven
ture at the grave. "If that's so," he added, " I
don't see how the ladies could be harmed. I
dare say they've run off. Why, we started
to run, and got so far off that we couldn't find
our way back, even after the trumpet began to
sound. You must keep blowing at it, you
know. Play all the national tunes you can — no
end. They'll find their way back if you give
them time."
And now they all went back to the house,
and the Baron in his anxiety could not talk
any more, but began his former occupation
of walking up and down, and fuming and
fretting and chafing, and, I'm again afraid,
swearing — when all of a sudden, on the bank
in front of him, on the very top, just emerging
from the thick underbrush which had concealed
them till that moment, to their utter amaze
ment and indescribable delight, they beheld
Scone Dacres and Mrs. Willoughby. Scone
Dacres appeared to Hawbury to be in a totally
different frame of mind from that in which he
had been when he last saw him ; and what per
plexed him most, yea, and absolutely confound
ed him, was the sight of Scone Dacres with his
demon wife, whom he had been pursuing for the
sake of vengeance, and whose frenzy had been
so violent that he himself had been drawn with
him on purpose to try and restrain him. And
now what was the injured husband doing with
his demon wife ? Doing! why, doing the
impassioned lover most vigorously ; sustaining
her steps most tenderly ; grasping her hand ;
pushing aside the bushes ; assisting her down
the slope ; overwhelming her, in short ; hov
ering round her, apparently unconscious that
there was in all the wide world any other bo-
ing than Mrs. Willoughby. And as Hawbury
looked upon all this his eyes dilated and his
lips parted involuntarily in utter wonder; and
finally, as Dacres reached the spot, the only
greeting which he could give his friend was,
"By Jove!"
And now, while Mrs. Willoughby and Ethel
were embracing with tears of joy, and over
whelming one another with questions, the Bar
on sought information from Dacres.
Dacres then informed him all about Tozer's
advent and departure.
"Tozer!" cried the Baron, in intense delight.
" Good on his darned old head ! Hurrah for
the parson ! He shall marry us for this — he,
and no other, by thunder!"
Upon which Mrs. Willoughby and Ethel ex
changed glances, but said not a word. Not
they.
But in about five minutes, when Mrs. Wil
loughby had Ethel apart a little by herself, she
said,
" Oh, Ethel dear, isn't it dreadful ?"
"What?" asked Ethel.
"Why, poor Minnie."
"Poor Minnie?"
"Yes. Another horrid man. And he'll bo
claiming her too. And, oh dear ! what shall
I do?"
" Why, you'll have to let her decide for her
self. I think it will be — this person."
Mrs. Willoughby clasped her hands, and
looked up with a pretty little expression of hor
ror.
"And do you know, dear," added Ethel,
"I'm beginning to think that it wouldn't be so
very bad. He's Lord Hawbury's friend, you
know, and then he's very, very brave ; and,
above all, think what we all owe him."
Mrs. Willoughby gave a resigned sigh.
And now the Baron was wilder with impa
tience than ever. He had questioned Dacres.
and found that he could give him no informa
tion whatever as to Tozer's route, and conse
quently had no idea where to search. But he
still had boundless confidence in " Yankee Doo
dle."
" That's the way," said Dacres ; " we heard
it ever so far, and it was the first thing that
told us it was safe to return. We didn't dare
to venture before."
Meanwhile Hawbury had got Dacres by him
self, and poured a torrent of questions over him.
Dacres told him in general terms how he was
captured. Then he informed him how Mrs.
Willoughby was put in the same room, and his
THE AMERICAN BAROX.
discovery that it was Minnie that the Italian
wanted.
"Well, do you know, old chap," continued
Dacres, "I couldn't stand it; so I offered to
make it all up with her."
" Oh, I see you've done that, old hoy. Con-
grat— '
"Pooh! wait a minute," said Dacres, inter
rupting him. " Well, you know, she wasn't my
wife at all."
At this Hawbury stood utterly aghast.
"What's that?"
"She wasn't my wife at all. She looks
confoundedly like what my wife was at her
best, but she's another person. It's a most
extraordinary likeness; and yet she's isn't any
relation, hut a great deal prettier woman. What
made me so sure, you know, was the infernally
odd coincidence of the name ; and then I only
saw her off and on, you know, and I never
heard* her voice. Then, you know, I was
mad with jealousy ; and so I made myself worse
nnd worse, till I was ripe for murder, arson,
assasination, and all that sort of thing, you
know."
To all this Hawbury listened in amazement,
and could not utter a word, until at last, as
Dacres paused, he said,
"By Jove!"
"Well, old man, I was the most infernal ass
that ever lived. And how I must have bored
you !"
"By Jove!" exclaimed Hawbury again.
"But drive on, old boy."
"Well, you know, the row occurred just
then, and away went the scoundrels to the
fight, and in came that parson fellow, and away
we went. I took Mrs. Willoughby to a safe
place, where I kept her till I heard the trum
pet, you know. And I've got another thing to
tell you. It's deuced odd, but she knew all
about me."
"The deuce she did!"
" Yes, the whole story. Lived somewhere in
the county. But I don't remember the Fays.
At any rate, she lived there ; and do you know,
old fellow, the county people used to think I
beat my wife !"
"By Jove!"
"Yes; and afterward they raised a report
that my cruelty had driven her mad. But I
had a few friends that stood up for me ; and
among others these Fays, you know, had heard
the truth of it, and, as it happened, Kitty — "
" Kitty ?"
"Well, Mrs. Willoughby, I mean — her name's
Kitty — has always known the truth about it ;
and when she saw me at Naples she felt inter
ested in me."
"Oho!" and Hawbury opened his eyes.
"Well, she knew all about it; and, among
other things, she gave me one piece of intelli
gence that has eased my mind."
" Ah ! what's that ?"
" Why, my wife is dead."
" Oh, then there's no doubt about it?"
" Not a bit. She died eight years ago, and
in -an insane asylum."
"By Jove! Then she was mad all th.-
time."
" Yes ; that accounts for it, and turns all my
curves into pity."
Dacres was silent now for a few moments.
At length he looked at Hawbury with a very
singular expression.
"Hawbury, old boy."
"Well, Sconey?"
"I think we'll keep it up."
"Who?"
" Why, Kitty and I— that is, Mrs. Willough
by and I — her name's Kitty, you know."
" Keep what up ?"
"Why, the — the — the fond illusion, and all
that sort of thing. You see I've got into such
an infernal habit of regarding her as my wife
that I can't look on her in any other light. I
claimed her, you know, and all that sort of
thing, and she thought I was delirious, and felt
sorry, and humored me, and gave me a very
favorable answer."
"Humored you?"
" Yes ; that's what she says now, you know.
But I'm holding her to it, and I've every rea
son to believe, yon know — in fact, I may as
well say that it is an understood thing, you
know, that she'll let it go, you know, and at
some early da}-, you know, we'll have it all
formally settled, and all that sort of thing,
you know."
Ilawbury wrung his friend's hand.
" See here, old boy ; you see Ethel there ?"
" Yes."
"Who do you think she is?"
"Who?"
"Ethel Orne!"
"Ethel Ome!" cried Dacres, as the whole
truth flashed on his mind. "What a devil of a
jumble every thing has been getting into ! By
Heaven, dear boy, I congratulate you from the
bottom of my soul !"
And he wrung Hawbury's hand as though all
his soul was in that grasp.
But all this could not satisfy the impatience
of the Baron. This was all very well in its
way, merely as an episode ; but he was wait
ing for the chief incident of the piece, and the
chief incident was delaying very unaccounta
bly.
So he strode up and down, and he fretted
and he fumed and he chafed, and the trumpeter
kept blowing awa\'.
Until at last —
Just before his eyes —
Up there on the top of the bank, not far
from where Dacres and Mrs. Willoughby had
made their appearance, the Baron caught sight
of a tall, lank, slim figure, clothed in rusty
black, whose thin and leathery face, rising
above a white neck-tie, peered solemnly yet
interrogatively through the bushes ; while just
behind him the Baron caught a glimpse of the
flutter of a woman's dress.
130
THE AMERICAN BARON.
"»1B liAVi: A LOU1> CKY OF JOY, AND THEN Bl'KANU UP THE BANK."
"You shall marrv
us, parson— and this
very day, by thun
der!"
These words came
to Mrs. Wuloiighby's
ears in the midst of
her first joy at meet
ing her sister, and
shocked her inex
pressibly.
"What's that,
Minnie darling ?" she
asked, anxiously.
" What is it ? Did
you hear what that
dreadful — what the
— the Baron said ?"
Minnie looked
sweetly conscious,
but said nothing.
"What does he
mean?" asked her
sister again.
" I suppose he
means what he says,"
replied Minnie, with
a timid air, stealing
a shy look at the
Baron.
"Oh dear!" said
Mrs. Willoughby ;
" there's another
dreadful trouble, I
know. It's very,
very hard — "
"Well, I'm sure,"
said Minnie, " I can't
help it. They all do
He gave a loud cry of joy, and then sprang
up the bank.
******
But over that meeting I think we had better
draw a veil.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
ASTONISHING WAT OF CONCLUDING AN
ADVENTURE.
THE meeting between the Baron and Minnie
gave a new shock to poor Mrs. Willoughby, who
looked with a helpless expression, and walked
away for a little distance. Dacres and Haw-
bury were still eagerly conversing and question
ing one another about their adventures. Tozer
also had descended and joined himself to the
priest ; and each of these groups had leisure
for a prolonged conversation before they were
interrupted. At length Minnie made her ap
pearance, and flung herself into her sister's arms,
while at the same time the Baron grasped To
zer by both hands, and called out, in a voice loud
enough to be heard by all,
so. That clergyman
came and saved me,
and he wasn't a Roman Catholic clergyman at
all, and he proposed — "
"Proposed!" cried Mrs. Willoughby, aghast.
"Oh yes," said Minnie, solemnly ; "and I
had hard work preventing him. But, really, it
was too absurd, and I would not let him be too
explicit. But 1 didn't hurt his feelings. Well,
you know, then all of a sudden, as we were sit
ting there, the bugle sounded, and we came
back. Well, then, Rufus K. Gunn came — and
you know how very violent he is in his way —
and he said he saved my life again, and so he
proposed."
" He proposed ! Why, he had proposed
before. "
" Oh yes ; but that was for an engagement,
and this was for our marriage."
" Marriage !"
" Oh yes ; and, you see, he had actually saved
my life twice, and he was very urgent, and he
is so awfully affectionate, and so — "
"Well, what?" cried Mrs. Willoughby, see
ing Minnie hesitate.
"Why, he—"
"Well?"
THE AMERICAN BARON.
131
"I mean, I — "
"You what? Really, Minnie dearest, you
might tell me, and not keep me in such dread
ful suspense."
"Why, what could I say?"
" But what did you say ?"
"Why, I think I — said — yes," said Minnie
casting down her eyes with indescribable sweet
ness, shyness, meekness, and resignation.
Mrs. Willoughby actually shuddered.
"Now, Kitty," exclaimed Minnie, who a
once noticed it, "you needn't be so horrid
I'm sure you can't say any thing against hiir
now. You needn't look so. You always hate
him. You never would treat him kindly."
"But this — this marriage. It's too shock
ing."
" Well, he saved my life."
"And to-day! How utterly preposterous!
It's shameful!"
" Well, I'm sure I can't help it."
"It's too horrid !" continued Mrs. Willough
by, in an excited tone. "It will break poor
papa's heart. And it will break poor darling
aunty's heart. And it will break my heart."
" Now, Kitty dearest, this is too silly in you.
If it hadn't been for him, I would now be mar
ried to that wretched Count, who hadn't suffi
cient affection for me to get me a chair to sit
on, and who was very, very rude to you. You
didn't care, though, whether I was married to
him or not ; and now when I am saved from him
you have nothing but very unpleasant things to
say about Rufus K. Gunn."
" Oh dear, what would I give if you were
only safe home!"
" Well, I'm sure I don't see what 7 can do.
People are always saving my lite. And there
is Captain Kirby hunting all over Italy for me.
And I know I will be saved by somebody — if —
if — I — I — if — I — if — you know — that is — I'm
sure — "
"Nonsense!" said Mrs. Willoughby, as Min
nie broke down in confusion. " It is too ab
surd. I won't talk about it. You are a silly
child. Oh, how I do wish you were home !"
At this juncture the conversation was inter
rupted by the Baron.
" It is not my fashion, ma'am, "said he, grave
ly, "to remind another of any obligation under
which he may be to me ; but my claims on Min
nie have been so opposed by you and the rest
of her friends that I have to ask you to think
of them. Your father knows what my first
claims are. You yourself, ma'am, know per
fectly well what the last claims are which I
have won to-day."
The Baron spoke calmly, firmly, and with dig
nity. Mrs. Willoughby answered not a word.
"If you think on your position last night,
and Minnie's, ma'am," resumed the Baron,
" you'll acknowledge, I expect, that it was pret
ty hard lines. What would you have given a
few hours ago for a sight of my uniform in that
old house yonder? If I had come then to save
Minnie from the clutches of that /talian,
wouldn't you have given her to me with all
your heart, and your prayers too ? You would,
by thunder! Think, ma'am, on your sufferings
last night, and then answer me."
Mrs. Willoughby involuntarily thought of
that night of horror, and shuddered, and said
nothing.
" Now, ma'am, just listen to this. I find on
coming here that this /talian had a priest here
all ready to marry him and Minnie. If I'd
been delayed or defeated, Minnie would have
been that rascal's wife by this time. The priest
was here. They would have been married as
sure as you're born. You, ma'am, would have
had to see this poor, trembling, broken-hearted,
despairing girl torn from your arms, and bound
by the marriage tie to a ruffian and a scoundrel
whom she loathed. And now, ma'am, I save
her from this. I have my priest too, ma'am.
He ain't a Roman Catholic, it is true — he's an
orthodox parson — but, at the same time, I ain't
particular. Now I propose to avail myself this
day of his invaluable services at the earliest
hour possible ; but, at the same time, if Min
prefers it, I don't object to the priest, for I have
a kind of Roman Catholic leaning myself.
"Now you may ask, ma'am," continued the
Baron, as Mrs. Willoughby continued silent —
"you may ask why I'm in such a thundering
lurry. My answer is, because you fit me off
>o. You tried to keep me from Min. You
ocked me out of your house. You threatened
to hand me over to the po-lice (and I'd like to
see one of them try it on with me). You said
was mad or drunk ; and finally you tried to
run away. Then you rejected my advice, and
)lunged head-foremost into this fix. Now, in
•iew of all this, my position is this — that I can't
rust you. I've got Min now, and I mean to
ceep her. If you got hold of her again, I feel
t would be the last of her. Consequently I
ain't going to let her go. Not me. Not by a
ong chalk.
" Finally, ma'am, if you'll allow me, I'll touch
upon another point. I've thought over your ob-
ections to me. It ain't my rank — I'm a noble ;
t ain't money — I'm worth a hundred thousand
ollars ; it ain't my name — for I call myself
Atramonte. It must be something in me. I've
ome to the conclusion that it's my general
tyle — my manners and customs. Very well,
erhaps they don't come up to your standard,
hey mayn't square with your ideas. Yet, let
ne inform you, ma'am, there are other stand-
rds of action and manner and speech than
dose to which you are accustomed, and mine
s one of them. Minnie doesn't object to that,
he knows my heart is all right, and is willing
o trust herself to me. Consequently I take
er, and I mean to make her mine this day."
As the Baron paused Mrs. Willoughby began,
rst of all, to express her gratitude, and then to
eg him to postpone the marriage. She de-
tared that it was an unheard-of thing, that
was shameful, that it was shocking, that it
as dreadful. She grew very much excited;
132
THE AMERICAN BAROX.
she protested, she entreated. Finally she burst
into tears, and appealed to Lord Hawbury in
the most moving terms. Hawbury listened
very gravely, with his eyes wandering over to
where Ethel was ; and Ethel caught the ex
pression of his face, and looked quite confused.
"Oh, think, only think," said Mrs. Willough
by, after an eloquent and pathetic appeal —
"think how ib.3 poor child will he talked
about ! "
"Well, really — ah — 'pon my life," said
Hawbury, with his eyes still wandering over
toward Ethel, "I'm sure I don't — ah — share
your views altogether, Mrs. Willoughby ; for —
ah — there are times, you know, when a fellow
finds it very uncommonly desirable — runaway
matches, you know, and all that sort of thing.
And, by Jove ! to tell the truth, I really admire
the idea, by Jove ! And really — ah — I'm
sure — I wish most confoundedly it was the
universal fashion, by Jove ! "
"But she'll be so talked about. She'll make
herself so shockingly consjricuous."
"Conspicuous? By Jove! "said Hawbury,
who seemed struck by the idea. At that mo
ment Minnie began talking to her sister, and
Hawbury went off to Ethel, to whom he began
talking in the most earnest manner. The two
wandered off for some distance, and did not re
turn for a full half hour. When they did re
turn Ethel looked somewhat embarrassed, and
Hawbury was radiant. With this radiance on
his face he went up to Mrs. Willoughby, leav
ing Ethel in the background.
"Oh, by-the-way," said he, "you were re
marking that your sister would be too con
spicuous by such a hasty marriage."
"Yes," said Mrs. Willoughby, anxiously.
"Well, I thought I would tell you that she
needn't be so very conspicuous ; for, in fact —
that is, you know, Ethel and I — she told you,
I suppose, about our mistake ?"
"Oh yes."
"And I think I've persuaded her to save
Minnie from being too conspicuous."
Mrs. Willoughby gave Hawbury a look of
astonishment and reproach.
" You !" she cried ; "and Ethel !"
"Why, I'm sure, we're the very ones you
might expect it from. Think how infernally
we've been humbugged by fate."
"Fate!" said Mrs. Willoughby. "It was
all your own fault. She was chosen for you."
" Chosen for me ? What do you mean ?"
" By your mother."
"My mother?"
"Yes."
" She said one of Biggs's nieces."
"Ethel is that niece."
" The devil !" cried Hawbury. " I beg par
don. By Jove!"
Hawbury, overwhelmed by this, went back to
Ethel, and they wandered off once more. The
Baron had already wandered off with Minnie
in another direction. Tozer and the priest had
gone to survey the house.
Seeing Mrs. Willoughby thus left alone, Da-
cres drifted up to her. He came up silently.
" Kitty," said he, in a low voice, " you seem
sad."
By which familiar address it will be seen
that Dacres had made some progress toward
intimacy with her.
Mrs. Willoughby did not seem at all offend
ed at this, but looked up with one of her frank
est smiles, and the clouds of perplexity passed
away. She was an exceedingly pretty woman,
and she was certainly not over twenty-four.
"I'm so worried," she said, plaintively.
"What's the matter?" asked Dacres, in a
tone of the deepest and tenderest sympathy.
" Why, these horrid men ; and, what's worse,
Lord Hawbury is actually encouraging Mr. —
the — the Baron ; and I'm so worried. Oh
dear !"
"But why should you be worried?"
"It's so horrid. It's shocking. It's not to
be thought of."
"But why not?" asked Dacres.
"Why, it's — it's so horrid," said Mrs. Wil
loughby.
Dacres stood looking at her for a long time.
" Kitty," said he at last.
Mrs. Willoughby looked up.
Dacres looked all around. He then took
her hand.
"Isn't it too bad," he said, "Vj let Min
nie — "
" What ?"
" To let her go through this ordeal alone ?"
" Alone!" exclaimed Mrs. Willoughby, look
ing in wonder at him.
"Yes."
" What do you mean ?"
" Couldn't we accompany her ?"
Mrs. Willoughby snatched away her hand.
"Are you mad?" she cried. "I do believe
the whole world's mad to-day."
" Mad !" cried Dacres. " Yes, I'm mad — in
sane — raving! Won't you be merciful again?
Won't you, Kitty? Won't you 'humor' my
ravings? Oh, do. Oh, Kitty ! dear Kitty— !"
" It's positive insanity !"
"Oh, Kitty!"
" You're raving !"
"Won't you 'humor' me — just this once!
only this once."
"Hush! there they come," said Mrs. Wil
loughby, suddenly snatching away her baud,
which Dacres had somehow got hold of again,
and moving a little further away from him.
It was the Baron and Minnie who were coin
ing back again, while Hawbury and Ethel were
seen a little further away.
There they all stood — there, on the spot where
they had found the crisis of their fortunes ; and
as they stood there the two clergymen, Catholic
and Protestant, slowly came out of the house.
THE END.
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THE DOMESTIC LIFE
OF
THOMAS JEFFEESON.
COMPILED FROM
FAMILY LETTERS AND REMINISCENCES
BY HIS GKEAT-GKANDDAUGHTER,
SARAH N. RANDOLPH.
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS.
Crown 8vo, Illuminated Cloth, Beveled Edges, $2 50.
This volume brings the life of Jefferson in a brief
space within the reach of all. While not writiug of
him as of the great man or statesman, Miss Randolph
has given sufficient outline of the contemporary pub
lic events, especially of those in which Jefferson was
engaged, to make the history of his times sufficiently
clear? Her object, however, she says, has been to give
a faithful picture of Jefferson as he was in private life,
and for this she was particularly well fitted. Her bi
ography is so arlles«, so frank, and so uncolored, dif
fering so completely from the lives of public men aa
generally written. *"* * This extremely interesting vol
ume.— Richmond Whig.
One of the most charming and entertaining of books,
and its pages will be a source of continual surprise
.ind pleasure to those who, while admiring the states
man, have had their admiration tempered by the be
lief that he was a demagogue, a libertine, a gamester,
and a scoffer at religion. The age in which Jefferson
lived was one in which political rancors and animosi
ties existed with no less bitterness than in our later
day, and in which, moreover, mutual abuse and malig
nant recrimination were indulged in with equal fury
and recklessness. Charges were made against Jeffer
son, by his political opponents, that clung to his good
name and sullied it, making it almost a by-word of
shame, and its owner a man whose example was to be
shunned. The prejudices and calumnies then born
have existed down to the present day ; but the mists
of evil "report that have hemmed his life and his mem
ory about are now clearing away, and this sunny book
will dispel the last shadow they have cast, and will
display the maligned victim of party hate in his tme
character— as a fond, an amiable, and a simple-hearted
father; a firm friend; a truly moral and God-fearing
citizen, and one of those few great men who have had
the rare fortune to be likewise good men. — Boston
.Saturday K vetting Gazette.
The author of this charmincr book has had access to
the best possible sources of information concerning
the private character of Mr. Jefferson, embracing both
the written testimony of his correspondence and the
<>ral testimony of family tradition. From these ma
terials, guided" by a profound reverence for the subject,
the writer has constructed a most interesting personal
biography. *** A most agreeable addition to American
literature, and will revive the memory of a patriot who
merits the respect and gratitude of his countrymen. —
Philadelphia Age.
This handsome volume is a valuable acquisition to
American history. It brings to the public observation
many most interesting incidents in the life of the third
President; and the times and men of the republic's
beginnings are here portrayed in a glowing and geni
al light. The author, in referring to the death-scenes
of Jefferson, reports sentiments from his lips which
contradict the current opinion that the writer of the
Declaration of Independence was an infidel. We are
glad to make this record in behalf of truth. Young
people would find this book both entertaining and
instructive. Its style is fresh and compact. Its pages
are full of tender memories. The great man whose
career is so charmingly pictured belongs to ns all.—
Methodist Recorder.
There is no more said of public matters in it than is
absolutely necessary to make it clear and intelligible;
but we have Jefferson, the man and the citizen, the
husband, the father, the agriculturist, and the neigh
bor—the man, in short, as he lived in the eyes of his
relative?, his closest friends, and his most intimate
associates. He is the Virginian gentleman at the va
rious stages of his marvelous career, and comes home
to us as a being of flesh and blood, and so his story
gives a series of lively pictures of a manner of exist
ence that has passed away, or that is so passing, for
they are more conservative at the South, socially
speaking, than are we at the North, though they live
so much nearer the sun than we ever can live. * * * We
can commend this book to every one who would know
the main facts of Mr. Jefferson's public career, and
those of his private life. It is the best work respect
ing him that has been published, and it is not so large
as to repel even indolent or careless readers. It is,
too, an ornamental volume, being not only beautifully
printed and bound, but well illustrated. * * * Every
American should own the volume.— Boston Traveller.
A charmingly compiled and written book, and it
has to do with one of the very greatest men of our nn-
tional history. There is scarcely one on the roll of
our public men who was possessed of more progress
ive individuality, or whose character will better repay
study, than Thomas Jefferson, and this biography is a
groat boon. — A'. Y. Kreninn Mail.
Rotli deeply interesting and valuable. The author
has displayed great tact and taste in the selection of
her materials and its arrangement.— Richmond JJix-
patch.
A charming book.— Xeiv Orleans Times.
The Domestic Life of Thomas Jefferson.
It is a series of delightful home pictures, which pre
sent the hero as he was familiarly known to his fami
ly and his best friends, in his fields, in his library, at
his table, and on the broad verandah at Monticello,
where all the sweetest flavors of his social nature were
diffused. His descendant does not conceal the fact
that she is proud of her great progenitor ; but she is
ingenious, and leaves his private letters mostly to
speak for themselves. It has been thought that " a
king is never a hero to his valet," and the proverb has
been considered undeniable ; but this volume shows
that Jefferson, if not exactly the " hero " to whom a
little obscurity is so essential, was at least warmly
loved and enthusiastically esteemed and admired by
those who knew him best. The letters in this volume
are full of interest, for they are chiefly published for
the first time now. They show a conscientious gen
tleman, not at all given to personal indulgences, quick
in both anger and forgiveness, the greatest American
student of his time, excepting the cold-blooded Ham
ilton, absolutely without formality, but particular and
exacting in the extreme— just the man who carried
his wife to the White House on the pillion of his gray
mare, and showed a British ambassador the door for au
offense against good-breeding. — Chicago Evening Post,
The reader will recognize the calm and philosophic
yet earnest spirit of the thinker, with the tenderness
and playful amiability of the father and friend. The
letters can not but shed a favorable light on the char
acter of perhaps the best-abused man of his time.—
.V. Y. Evening Post.
No attempt is made in this volume to present its
subject as a public man or as a statesman. It is sim
ply sought to picture him as living in the midst of his
domestic circle. And this it is which will invest the
book with interest for all classes of readers, for all
who, whatever their politics, can appreciate the beauty
of a pure, loving life. * * * It is written in an easy,
agreeable style, by a most loving hand, and, perhaps,
better than any other biography extant, makes the
reader acquainted with the real character of a man
whose public career has furnished material for BO
much book-making. — Philadelphia Inquirer.
The perusal of this interesting volume confirms the
impression that whatever criticisms may be brought
to bear upon the official career of Mr. Jefferson, or his
influence upon the politics of this country, there was
a peculiar charm in all the relations of his personal
and social life. In spite of the strength of his con
victions, which he certainly often expressed with an
energy amounting to vehemence, he was a man of rare
sunniness of temperament and sweetness of disposi
tion. He had qualities which called forth the love of
his friends no less than the hatred of his opponents.
His most familiar acquaintance cherished the most
ardent admiration of his character. His virtues in the
circle of home won the applause even of his public
adversaries. — A". Y. Tribune.
It lifts up the curtain of his private life, and by nu
merous letters to his family allows us to catch a glimpse
of his real nature and character. Many interesting
reminiscences have been collected by the author and
are presented to the reader.— Boston Commercial Bul
letin.
These letters show him to have been a loving hus
band, a tender father, and a hospitable gentleman.—
Presbyterian.
Jefferson was not only eloquent in state papers, but
he was full of point and clearness amounting to wit
in his minor correspondence. — Albany Arrjus.
It is the record of the life of one of the most ex
traordinary men of any age or country.— Richmond
Inquirer.
With the public life of Thomas Jefferson the public
is familiar, as without it no adequate knowledge is
possible of the history of Virginia or of the United
States. Its guiding principles and great events, as
likewise its smallest details, have long been before the
world in the "Jefferson Papers," and in the laborious
history of Randall. But to a full appreciation of the
politician, the statesman, the publicist, and the think
er, there was still wanting some complete and correct
knowledge of the man and his daily life amidst his
family. This want Miss Randolph has endeavored
most successfully to supply. As scarcely one of the
founders of the republic had warmer friends, or ex
erted a deeper and a wider influence upon the country,
so scarcely one encountered more bitter animosity or
had to live down slander more envenomed. Truth
conquered in the end, and the foul rumors, engendered I
in partisan conflicts, against the private life of Jeffer
son have long shrunk into silence in the light of hi.-
fame. Nevertheless, it is well done of his descendant
thus to place before the world his life as in his letters
and his conversation it appeared from day to day to
those nearest and dearest to him. Nor is it a matter
of small value to bring to our sight the interior life of
our ancestors as it is delineated in the letters of Jef
ferson, touching incidently on all the subjects of dress,
food, manners, amusements, expenditures, occupa
tions — in brief, neglecting nothing of what the men
of those days were and thought and did. It is of such
materials that consist the pictures of history whose
gaunt outlines of battles, sieges, corouations, dethrone
ments, and parliaments are of little worth without the
living and breathing details of everyday existence. * * *
The anthor has happily performed her task, never ob
truding her own presence upon the reader, careful only
to come forward when necessary to explain some
doubtful point or to connect the events of different
dates. She may be congratulated upon the grace with
which she has both written and forborne to write,
never being beguiled by the vanity of authorship or
that too great care which is the besetting sin of bi
ography. — Petersburg Daily Index.
It is a highly interesting book, not only as a por
traiture of the domestic life of Jefferson, but as a side
view of the parties and politics of the day, witnessed
in our country seventy years ago. The correspond
ence of the public characters at that period will be
read with special interest by those who study the ear
ly history of our government.— Richmond 'Christian
Observer.
In the unrestrained confidence of family correspond
ence, nature has always full sway, and the revelations
presented in this book of Mr. Jefferson's real temper
and opinions, unrestrained or unmodified by the cau
tion called for in public documents, make the work
not only valuable but entertaining. — A". Y. World.
The author has done her work with a loving hand,
and has made a most interesting book.— A". Y. Com
mercial Advertiser.
It gives a picture of his private life, which it pre
sents in a most favorable light, calculated to redeem
Jefferson's character from many, if not all, the asper
sions and slanders which, in common with most pub
lic characters, he had to endure while living.— A'ew
Bedford Standard.
The letters of Jefferson are models of epistolary
composition— easy, graceful, and simple.— A"«w Bedford
Mercury.
The book is a very good picture of the social life
not only of himself but of the age in which he lived.
—Detroit Post.
One of the most charming memoirs of the day.—
X. Y. Times.
PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK.
THE TOM BROWN BOOKS.
TOM BROWN'S SCHOOL DAYS.
By An Old Boy. New Edition. Beautifully Illustrated by Arthur Hughes
and Sydney Prior Hall. Svo, Paper, 50 cents.
Nothing need be said of the merits of this acknowl- Can be read a dozen times, and each time with tears
edged on all hands to be one of the very best boy's books and laughter as genuine and impulsive as at the first. —
ever written. "Tom Brown" does not reach the point Rochester Democrat.
of ideal excellence. He is not a faultless boy ; but his Finely printed, and contains excellent illustrations,
boy-faults, by the way they are corrected, help him in get- "Tom Brown " is a book which will always be popular
ting on. The more of such reading can be furnished the with boys, and it deserves to be. — World (N. Y.).
better. There will never be too much of it. — Examitier For healthy reading it is one book in a thousand.— A el
and Chronicle. \ vance.
TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.
By the Author of " Tom Brown's School Days." New Edition. With Il
lustrations by Sydney Prior Hall. Svo, Paper, 75 cents.
A new and very pretty edition. The illustrations are
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literary merits of the work, which has become a kind of
classic, and which presents the grand old Tory University ,
to the reader in all its glory and fascination. — Evening \
Post.
A book of which one never wearies. — Presbyterian.
Fairly entitled to the rank and dignity of an English
classic. Plot, style, and truthfulness are of the soundest
British character. Racy, idiomatic, mirror-like, always
interesting, suggesting thought on the knottiest social
and religious questions, now deeply moving by its uncon
scious pathos, and anon inspiring uproarious laughter,
it is a work the world will not willingly let die. — Christian
A dvocate.
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TWO VALUABLE HOUSEHOLD BOOKS
PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK.
OTJR
By DIO LEWIS, A.M., M.D.
ICDITIOHST. 13mo, Cloth, $1 5O.
The book not only deserves to be read ; it mil be ,
read, because it is full of interest, concerning itself,
as it does, with such matters as girls' boots and shoes ;
how girls should walk; low neck and short sleeves;
outrages upon the body ; stockings supporters ; why
are women so small? idleness among girls ; sunshine
and health; a word about baths; what yon should
eat; how to manage a cold; fat and thin girls, etc.,
etc. — .V. Y. Evening Post.
Dr. Dio Lewis has written a sensible and lively book.
There is not a dull page in it, and scarcely one that
does not convey some sound instruction. We wish
the book could enter thousands of our homes, fash
ionable and unfashionable ; for we believe it contains
suggestions and teaching of precisely the kiud that
"our girls" every where need.— ^V. Y. Indepeiident.
This really important book. — Christian Union.
Written in l)r. Lewis's free and lively style, and is
full of good ideas, the fruit of long study and experi
ence, told in a sensible, practical way that commends
them to every one who reads. The whole book is ad
mirably sensible. — Boston Post.
Full of practical and very sensible advice to young
women . — Episcopalian.
Dr. Lewis is well known as an acute observer, a
man of great practical sagacity in sanitary reform, and
a lively and brilliant writer upon medical subjects.—
.V. Y. Observer.
We like it exceedingly. It says just what ought to
be said, and that in style colloquial, short, sharp, and
memorable.— Christian A dvocate.
The whole tone of the book is pure and healthy.—
Albany Express.
Every page shows him to be in earnest, and thorough
ly alive to the importance of the subjects he diseases.
He talks like one who has a solemn message to deliver,
and who deems the matter far more essential tlian the
manner. His book is, therefore, a series of short, earn
est appeals against the unnatural, foolish, and suicidal
customs prevailing iu fashionable society.— Church
man.
A timely and most desirable book.— Springfield Union.
Full of spicy, sharp things about matters "pertaining
to health ; full of good advice, which, if people wonld
but take it, would soon change the world in some very
important respects ; not profound or systematic, but
still a book with numberless good things in it.— Lib
eral Christian.
The author writes with vigor and point, and with
occasional dry humor. — Worcester !^p;!.
Brimful of good, common-sense hints regarding
dress, diet, recreation, and other necessary things in
the female economy. — Boston Journal,
Dr. Lewis talks very plainly and sensibly, and makes
very many important suggestions. He does not mince
matters at all, but puts every thing in a straightfor
ward and, not seldom, homely way, perspicuous to the
dullest understanding. His style is lively and read
able, and the book is very entertaining as well as in
structive. — Register, Salem, Mass.
One of the most popular of modern writers upon
health and the means of its preservation.— Presbyterian
Banner.
There is hardly any thing that may form a part of
woman's experience that is not touched upon.— Chi
cago Journal.
THE BAZAR BOOK OF DECOIIUM:
CARE OF THE PERSON, MANNERS, ETIQUETTE, AND CEREMONIALS,
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/iazar. This in itself is a sufficient recommendation—
Harper's Bazar being probably the only journalof fash
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ened reason for its guides. The "Bazar Bonk of
Decorum" deserves every commendation.— Independ
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A very graceful and judicious compendinm of the
laws of etiquette, taking its name from the Bazar
weekly, which has become an established authority
with the ladies of America upon all matters of taste
and refinement. — A". Y. Evening Post.
It is, without question, the very best and most thor
ough work on the subject which has ever been pre
sented to the public.— Brooklim Daihi Times.
It would be a good thing if at least one copy of this
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order that all — especially the youth of both sexes-
might read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest its wise
instruction, pleasantly conveyed in a scholarly man
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Abounds in sensible suggestions for keeping one's
person in proper order, and for doing tltly and to one's
own satisfaction the thousand social duties that make
up so large a part of social and domestic life. — Corre
spondence of Cincinnati Chronirle.
Full of good and sound common-sense, and its tmg-
gestions will prove valuable in many a social quanda
ry. — Portland Transcript.
A little work embodying a multitude of useful hints
and suggestions regarding the proper care of the per
son and the formation of refined habits and manners.
The subject is treated with good sense and good taste,
and is relieved from tedium by an abundance of enter
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wisely inculcates them while specifying the rules based
upon them which regulate the civilities and cere
monies of social life. — Evening Post, Chicago.
* * * It would be easy to quote a hundred curt, sharp
sentences, full of truth and force, and touching points
of behavior and personal habitude that concern us all.
— Spri nn field llepublican.
J i y for the best book of the kind of which we have
any knowledge. — Chicago Journal.
An eminently sensible book.— Liberal Christian.
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SCIENCE FOR THE YOUNG.
BY JACOB ABBOTT,
Author of "The Young Christian Series," "Marco Paul Series," "Rainbow and Lucky Series," "Little
Learner Series," "Frauconia Stories," Illustrated Histories, &c., <fcc.
Few men enjoy a wider or better earned popularity as a writer for the young than Jacob
Abbott. His series of histories, and stories illustrative of moral truths, have furnished amusement
and instruction to thousands. He has the knack of piquing and gratifying curiosity. In the book
before us he shows his happy faculty of imparting useful information through the medium of a
pleasant narrative, keeping alive the interest of the young reader, and fixing in his memory valu
able truths. — Mercury, New Bedford, Mass.
Jacob Abbott is almost the only writer in the English language who knows how to combine
real amusement with real instruction in such a manner that the eager young readers are quite as
much interested in the useful knowledge he imparts as in the story which he makes so pleasant a
medium of instruction. — Buffalo Commercial Advertiser.
HEAT:
Being Part I. of Science for the Young. By
JACOB ABBOTT. Copiously Illustrated. 12mo,
Illuminated Cloth, black and gilt, $1 50.
Perhaps that eminent and ancient gentleman who
told his young master that there was no royal road
to science could admit that he was mistaken after ex
amining one of the volumes of the series "Science for
the Young," which the Harpers are now bringing out.
The lirst of these, "Heat," by Jacob Abbott, while
bringing two or three young travelers from a New
York hotel across the ocean to Liverpool in a Cunarder,
makes them acquainted with most of the leading scien
tific principles regarding heat. The idea of conveying
scientific instruction in this manner is admirable, and
the method in which the plan is carried out is excellent.
While the youthful reader is skillfully entrapped into
lionising what appears to be an interesting story, and
which is really so, he devours the substance and prin
cipal facts of many learned treatises. Surely this is a
royal road for our young sovereigns to travel over. —
Wirrld, N. Y.
It combines information with amusement, weav
ing in with a story or sketch of travel dry rules of
mechanics or chemistry or philosophy. Mr. Abbott
accomplishes this object very successfully. The story
is a simple one, and the characters he introduces are
natural and agreeable. Readers of the volume, young
and old, will follow it with unabating interest, and it can
not fail to have the intended effect. — Jewish Messenger.
It is admirably done. * * * Having tried the book with
children, and found it absolutely fascinating, even to
a bright boy of eight, who has had no special prepa
ration for it, we can speak with entire confidence of its
value. The author has been careful in his statements
of facts and of natural laws to follow the very best au
thorities; and on some points of importance his ac
count is more accurate and more useful than that given
in many works of considerable scientific pretensions
written before the true character of heat as what Tyn-
dall calls "a mode of motion" was fully recognized.
* * * Mr. Abbott has, in his " Heat," thrown a peculiar
charm upon his pages, which makes them at once clear
and delightful to children who can enjoy a fairy tale.
—.V. Y. Evening I'ost.
* * * Mr. Abbott has avoided the errors so common
with writers for popular effect, that of slurring over
the difficulties or the subject through the desire of
making it intelligible and attractive to unlearned
readers. He never tampers with the truth of science,
nor attempts to dodge the solution of a knotty prob
lem behind a cloud of plausible illustrations. The nu
merous illustrations which accompany every chapter
are of unquestionable value in the comprehension of
the text, and come next to actual experiment as an aid
to the reader.— If. Y. Tribune.
LIGHT:
Being Part II. of Science far the Young. By
JACOB ABBOTT. Copiously Illustrated. 12mo,
Illuminated Cloth, black and gilt, $1 50.
Treats of the theory of " Light," presenting in a pop
ular form the latest conclusions of chemical and optic
al science on the subject, and elucidating its various
points of interest with characteristic clean e ;s and
force. Its simplicity of language, and the beauty and
appropriateness of its pictorial illustrations, make it a
most attractive volume for young persons, while the
fullness and accuracy of the information with which
it overflows commends it to the attention of mature
readers.— Ar. Y. Tribune.
Like the previous volume, it is in all respects admir
able. It is a mystery to us how Mr. Abbott can so
simplify the most abstruse and difficult principle?, in
which optics especially abounds, as to bring them with
in the grasp of quite youthful readers ; we can only be
very grateful to him "for the result. This book is up
to our latest knowledge of the wonderful force of
which it treats, and yet weaves all its astounding facts
into pleasing and readable narrative form. There are
few grown people, indeed, whose knowledge will not
be vastly increased by a perusal of this capital book. —
X. Y. Evening Mail.
Perhaps there is no American author to whom our
young people are under so great a debt of gratitude
as to this writer. The book before us, like all its pre
decessors from the same pen, is lucid, simple, amusing,
and instructive. It is well gotten up and finely illus
trated, and should have a place in the library of every
family where there are children.— ^Y. Y. Star.
It is the second volume of a delightful series started
by Mr. Abbott under the title or "Science for the
Youn£r," in which is detailed interesting conversations
and experiments, narratives of travel, and adventures
by the young in pursuit of knowledge. The science
of optics is here so plainly and so uhtechniciilly un
folded that many of its most mysterious phenomena
are rendered intelligible at once.— -Cleveland Plain
Dealer.
It is complete, and intensely interesting. Such a
series must he of great usefulness. It should be in
every family library. The volume before us is thor
ough, and succeeds in popularizing the branch oC ?ci-
ence and natural history treated, and, we may add,
there is nothing more varied in its phenomena or im
portant in its effects than light.— Chicago Evening
Journal.
Any person, young or old, who wishes to inform
himself in a pleasant way about the spectroscope,
magic-lantern cameras, and other optical instruments,
and about solar, electric, calcium, magnesium, and all
other kinds oflight, will find this book of Mr. Abbott
both interesting' and instructive.— Lutheran Obsei-ver.
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author.— N. Y. Sun.
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MISS MULOCK'S NOVELS.
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or merely weak and self-indulgent nature.
She does not limit herself to domestic conversations, and the mere shock of character on character ; she includes a
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She has a true respect for her work, and never permits herself to "make books," and yet she has evidently very
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There are few writers who have exhibited a more marked progress, whether in freedom of touch or in depth of pur
se, than the authoress of " The Ogilvies " and "John Halifax."
pose
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yond.
The print is clear and excellent ; the paper is good ;
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Those who want a perfect and complete edition of the
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the Harper edition. — Troy Budget.
A marvel of cheapness. — The Christian Era.
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Del.).
A marvelous instance of blended beauty and cheapness.
— Charleston Courier.
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